The Road Delivered Us Home
by Keelywolfe
Summary: In the years since Bilbo left Erebor, he has lost his respectability, gained a nephew, and gotten on with life at Bag End. He'd left aside adventure for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, and for the love of a child who needed him. Though perhaps, adventures can yet find him.
1. Chapter 1

One of the best features that his father had thoughtfully included when he'd commissioned Bag End to be built was that none of the bedrooms had easterly facing windows. Not that dawn wasn't a lovely time; the glorious hues of the approaching sun coloring the sky and the brilliant rise of it over the hills, casting its warm glow over the Shire.

No, Bilbo had a fine appreciation for the sunrise and on occasion, he did rise early to enjoy its silent approach, smoking his pipe as he listened to the chirping birds, the occasional cockerel crowing in the distance. On occasion, that was, rare occasions.

Aside from those times, Bilbo was more than happy to stay with the traditional response of hobbits to morning; if it was too early for breakfast, it was too early to be awake. Though that opinion had changed for him somewhat recently, ever since he'd taken to living with someone who did not share it.

It began with a feeling, one that reached through the embracing arms of his sleep to drag him close to the surface of waking. A feeling of being watched, and Bilbo could wryly thank his travels with a group of Dwarves for making it impossible for him to sleep through such a thing. He might resist it for a time, struggling to remain in the sweetness of dreamland, but in the end, he would relent and open his eyes.

To find a small face close to his own, large blue eyes staring at him unblinkingly. Bilbo met that stare, raising one sleepy eyebrow and Frodo's solemn expression split into a smile, bright as the dawn that surely had yet to come.

"Good morning, Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo said happily, rising to his knees with a bounce that shook the entire bed and Bilbo could not help but groan aloud. Not that it wasn't a relief and a pleasure to see the young lad so happy; when he'd first come to Bag End, Bilbo had despaired at ever seeing the child smile again, so deep was his grief.

Now, some months later, he was nearly back to the boy Bilbo remembered seeing at various family affairs, equal parts sweet and mischievous, and now, surely hungry as young Hobbits often were.

"Good morning," Bilbo told him and if he seemed grumpy, Frodo did not seem to notice. He beamed at his Uncle, or really, his cousin, though Bilbo had corrected that when Frodo arrived. He could never be the boy's father but an Uncle seemed to him more a comfort than a mere cousin, of which Frodo had in droves. "I suppose you'll be wanting breakfast then?"

"Yes, yes!" Frodo cried, bouncing on the mattress until Bilbo felt as though he were sailing on a rough river, nearly as awful as traveling one in a barrel. He groaned a protest and Frodo stopped instantly, a worried expression crossing his face. "I didn't wake you, did I, Uncle Bilbo?" he asked timidly, and Bilbo silently cursed Lobelia for whatever it was she'd told this boy in the few weeks Frodo had stayed with the Sacksville-Baggins.

Primula would have snatched that hag baldheaded had she returned as a ghost and since that was impossible, Bilbo instead did what he could to reassure his young charge that his presence was no burden and never mind what nonsense he'd been told.

"Of course not," Bilbo told him stoutly, tossing back the covers and hardly pausing at all to regret their loss. "I've been up for ages, waiting for you to come in! "

"You didn't look awake," Frodo said doubtfully, though some of the cheer had returned to his eyes.

"And who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes," Bilbo asked. He opened his own wide, pointing at them. "Never trust your eyes, Frodo, my boy, they'll trip you up."

Frodo giggled, whatever fugue he'd had passing over, and he climbed to his feet, bouncing on his toes impatiently as Bilbo drew on his robe. "If I don't trust my eyes, the furniture will trip me up and then where shall I be?"

Bilbo laughed aloud, following his nephew through the doorway, "Aren't you clever? Very well, then, trust your feet for walking and me on whether or not I was sleeping. Now, let's see what's in the kitchen, shall we? I think perhaps this is a morning for oat cakes and sausages."

The lad's cheer echoed through the room loud enough for Bilbo to wince, though he could not help a smile. Perhaps he rarely got a chance to sleep in but Frodo had filled a loneliness in his heart Bilbo had not even been aware he possessed.

They walked past his study on the way to the kitchen and Bilbo paused, his eyes drawn briefly to a map leaned against a shelf. Carefully framed and preserved, the very last thing he'd burgled while he still possessed the title.

Thorin's map.

It was a relic of his people and Bilbo had certainly had no right to it. Even now it should be in Erebor, conserved for the generations to appreciate and Dwarven scholars should be the ones in ownership of it, not a little Hobbit from the Shire. Bilbo knew all of this and own love of histories made no reasonable excuse for his thievery. And Bilbo had taken it anyway, set it in his study where he might see it in passing and every glance made his heart clench, his fading loneliness flaring back to life.

He would never have believed how much he missed Dwarves, with their mad table manners and ferocious tempers. When he'd chosen to leave Erebor and return to Bag End, his homesickness had been enflamed by other losses; Kili and Fili, their bright smiles forever lost. And Thorin, so terribly wounded in body and heart that he had hardly seemed himself. Bilbo had stayed only long enough to see him recovered, though barely, still pale as he'd been officially crowned King Under the Mountain.

Thorin had stood straight and tall, unbending as the cheers of his people rolled over them all. The King and his heroes and Bilbo had been amongst them.

And Bilbo had left that behind for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, his adventures at an end, and now, only a few years later, he'd felt that unexpected itch returning, the urge to see mountains again, to walk through the forest of Mirkwood, and Erebor…to see Erebor again.

Bilbo shook his head and his memories aside and instead returned to his own kitchen, his nephew waiting on him eagerly. His adventures would have to be at an end for now, for this one depended on him.

Besides, Frodo tended to be an adventure all his own.

* * *

><p>After breakfast and dishes, Bilbo sent Frodo off to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air with the other children, a packet of morning treats tucked into his pocket in case he got the nibbles. It gave Bilbo a chance to dress for his morning appointment and goodness knew he'd best not be late; Mungo Danderfluff was the best tailor in the Shire and he waited on no Hobbit, no matter how rich or interestingly peculiar.<p>

Bilbo put on his second-best waistcoat - soon to be his third-best if Mungo had done well by him and there was no reason to think he hadn't – and gave his feet a quick, thorough brushing before heading out the door. It was certainly an indulgence and the rumor mill would soon be grinding along at how Bilbo had commissioned yet another waistcoat from Mungo and, my, was that a matching cravat, surely it was.

It was a minor irritation. What coin he had was his to spend and Bilbo rather thought he'd prefer a new waistcoat than leaving any gold to any of his distant relations, some of whom already seemed to be greedily examining him, as though he were doddering along in his dotage rather than in the prime of his life and health.

Besides, he hadn't heard anyone complaining about his frivolous ways at his last birthday, when the presents he'd handed out had been generous, indeed.

He took a deep, contented breath as he stepped out the door. The snipping of gardening shears caught his attention and Bilbo saw Hamfast Gamgee tending to the shrubbery, whistling cheerily as he went.

"Good morning!" Bilbo called and Hamfast paused, doffing a large red handkerchief and mopping at his brow with it.

"Good morning, Mister Bilbo, sir," Hamfast returned and he set aside his shears, trotting up the path. He held up his hands in dismay as Bilbo held his own out for a shake. "Oh, no, you'll not want to be dirtying yourself up, you won't, not with my grubby hands. Only, I was wanting to talk to you, if you have a moment, sir."

"Of course," Bilbo said warmly. He'd long since given up on getting Hamfast to call him by name. Any time he suggested it, his gardener had been appalled, claiming stoutly that the garden was Bilbo's, Hamfast only worked in it. It weren't proper, he declared earnestly and Bilbo had let it be.

Now, Hamfast stood before him nervously, shuffling his feet like an oversized child. "Only I'm not one for gossip, you know that, Mister Bilbo."

In all honestly, Bilbo knew no such thing, Hamfast had a quicker tongue than a lake lizard. "Yes, you're a soul of discretion," Bilbo agreed, "But perhaps you've heard a whisper or two you think I need know about?"

Hamfast nodded unhappily, "I have, sir, I have indeed. It's only, there's talk of strange folk about, traveling through the Shire. Folks say they've gotten as far as Frogmorton."

Bilbo frowned. "I don't see as there's anything strange about that. Travelers do pass through from time to time." He let out a chuckle, "Usually on their way to Southfarthing to the Hornblower's farm for a stock of Old Toby."

"Possibly, possibly," Hamfast agreed, though looked to be agreeing for the sake of politeness. "They say there's something odd about these two, though, Mister Bilbo. Some folk think…" And Hamfast's cheeks went pink, though he plowed on determinedly. "Some folks think perhaps it's to do with you, what with your adventuring and all."

"It was one adventure, one!" Bilbo said exasperatedly. "I honestly can't imagine that so little of interest has happened in the Shire these past few years that nothing has replaced my one adventure for a more interesting event."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Hamfast said apologetically, "But I'm thinking no one's like to forget the sight of thirteen Dwarves on ponies leaving Bag End one morning just yet, not till another Hobbit makes it twenty. Not that I'm one for gossip, Mister Baggins, sir," he added hastily, "But you know how tongues get to wagging. And when tongues get to wagging-"

"Visitors come calling," Bilbo finished, wryly. "I suppose I should set out an extra serving of cake at tea today for anyone nosey enough to stop by. Thank you, Hamfast, for the warning. Perhaps you and Samwise might come?" At the wavering hesitation on his gardener's face, Bilbo added, slyly, "Frodo would be quite happy for a chance to share a few treats with friends rather than any snooping busybody who might drop by."

At that, Hamfast puffed up, pink with pleasure, "Why, I don't see why we shouldn't! A spot of tea always make a bright day even better." He glanced up at the sun, squinting, "You'd best be off now, Mister Bilbo, shouldn't be late to your appointment."

Bilbo fumbled out his pocket watch and gasped at the time, "Oh, dear, yes. I'll be home for tea," he called over his shoulder, scurrying down the path. "Good morning!"

An echo of his good morning followed him as he hurried on his way, already despairing at Mungo's temper. The exquisiteness of his work more than made up for it, but my, he could be atrocious!

It seemed quite unfair to Bilbo that Mungo was only seen as eccentric whilst he was seen as odd. He supposed tailoring added some small bit of respectability to his tantrums while there was hardly anything respectable at all about coming back with a horde of Troll gold.

Even now, whenever something odd happened, like strange visitors passing through, he was regarded with great suspicion. This was the price one paid for adventures, though if one was rich enough, the cost wasn't terribly dear.

And now there was Frodo to think of as well. Bilbo made a mental note to bring the lad along with him next time, if Mungo could be made amicable enough for an appointment. He could use new trousers and shirts, growing like a weed he was, and there wasn't a single reason Bilbo could think of that he shouldn't have the finest available.

Let the gossips of Hobbiton put that their pipes and smoke it.

* * *

><p>It turned out to be a good plan to put out a few extra cakes at tea, as well as extra biscuits alongside a jar of Missy Turnbottom's peach preserves. Barely had he returned from Mungo's with his exquisitely fine new waistcoat – and only barely singed by the rough side of the tailor's tongue—than a few of his neighbors had dropped by for a visit.<p>

Most Hobbits were polite enough, though curious, and their veiled questions were easily set aside unanswered. Bilbo gave them tea and his attentions and then sent them on their way, only to be disturbed yet again by a knock on the door. Bilbo had quickly grown weary of the unexpected guests, though he had not shirked in his duties as host. He was already regarded as odd; it wouldn't do to be seen as unsociable as well, not with Frodo young as he was.

But even the heartiest of Hobbits would be sick of tea after a dozen servings, as well as roundabout questions and nosey assumptions. Only Gorbadoc Brandybuck, who was quite old enough to care little about respectability himself, had been bold enough to outright ask Bilbo.

The elder hobbit had wobbled in with his stout cane and helped himself to the cakes, gumming them with visible satisfaction and something about that put Bilbo to mind of a group of Dwarves who had once barged in much the same. It sent a pain to ache in Bilbo's gut, though perhaps that was simply too much tea. Homesickness was not the right word, for home he was, there was something else that ached within him when Bilbo thought of Dwarves and Erebor, and passing time had not eased it. A pain that refused to heal.

Gorbadoc hadn't wasted a moment with idle chitchat about the weather or the state of the early tomatoes. He'd slurped his tea, making Bilbo wince, before looking at him over the cup rim with eyes still sharp despite his age. "The gossips in town are speaking of strange visitors."

"Are they," Bilbo asked vaguely, and though his stomach, and bladder, protested vigorously, he took a sip of his own tea.

Gorbadoc nodded shortly, "Aye, they are. Talk of strange folk about. Dwarves, I believe."

Bilbo's stomach lurched again and it had nothing to do with the tea. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know anything about that."

"No?" Gorbadoc wet his finger and ran it over his plate, catching any loose crumbs. "Not one of yours then, Baggins?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so," Bilbo assured him and held up the tea pot. "Would you care for another cup?"

It had turned out that Gorbadoc did, as well as another biscuit, and the moment he doddered through the door, cane thumping before him, Bilbo had closed the door tightly and thrown the bolt. There was being hospitable and then there was being a doormat, and Bilbo thought he'd had quite enough of guests for a time.

The only teatime company he had appreciated had been Hamfast, who had wiped his feet on the doormat far longer than Bilbo had thought necessary, and Samwise, a fine young lad only a little younger than Frodo. The two of them had become thick as thieves since Frodo had come to Bag End and Bilbo approved. Sam was quiet and shy where Frodo was, well, was not, and the two complimented each other well.

As for Hamfast, talk of early tomatoes was no chitchat for him, and the two of them had enjoyed their gardening conversation while the children drank their milky tea from Bilbo's second-best set with solemn importance. At least this company had no interest in asking him about strange visitors!

Dinnertime saw a cessation in busybodies and soon after Bilbo had bundled a yawning Frodo off to a bath and bed. Lobelia would have been appalled at the state of the lad's feet, Bilbo thought fondly, though he saw no harm in childish play. His clothes would wash and so would the boy.

Tucked into his bed, Frodo had clamored for a story and Bilbo was happy to indulge, relaying his oft-told tale of the monstrous trolls who'd nearly consumed their company that long-ago night. A bit of a bloodthirsty tale for a child, perhaps, but one Frodo delighted to hear time and again.

He was already asleep against his pillows by the time Bilbo got to the part where Gandalf had arrived, his mussed hair still damp from his bath. Bilbo pressed a gentle kiss to the lad's forehead and tucked his blankets close around him before escaping, his mind already on the blank pages in his study that seemed to call for him to write. Telling the tale of the trolls to Frodo gave him an itch to write it down.

A loud knock at the door made him jump and Bilbo heaved an irritated sigh. Visitors, at this time of night? He'd hardly be called unsociable for turning that sort of rudeness away and Bilbo tightened the belt on his robe as he went to do just that.

"I'm terribly sorry, but we're already retiring for the night," he began, yanking open the door. Only to fall silent, mouth agape, as he took in the figure before him. Tall as Bilbo's memory recalled, his head still quite bald, although Bilbo thought he saw a new tattoo or two etched into the skin. Dwalin grimaced down at him with his customary welcome.

"Still at your service, Master Baggins," Dwalin said roughly, "And I'd be in your debt as well if you'd invite me in for dinner."

"Yes…why, yes, of course!" Bilbo stammered, opening the door wide. Dwalin ducked inside, already unbuckling his cloak and Bilbo took it automatically, struggling with both the heavy cloth and the door. He'd nearly had it shut when Dwalin spoke up again.

"Might want to leave it open just yet," he drawled, "He's only seeing to the ponies."

"He—" Bilbo broke off, confused. He peered around the door into the night and saw nothing but the occasional lantern, the landscape speckled with the faint light from windows. Then he heard footsteps, heavy boots that could only be of Dwarvish nature and another tall figure stepped into view, very much as familiar as the first.

"Thorin?" Bilbo asked, his voice shrill with disbelief. It was not possible that Thorin of all Dwarves would be standing at his front stoop and yet it was. He looked quite the same, though his beard was longer, threaded with a single, intricately engraved bead. There was a great deal more silver in his hair, visible even in his traditional braids, and perhaps a few more lines on his face. Still, it was him and he was here. On Bilbo's front stoop.

Thorin smiled and bowed to him, "At your service."

"Ah, no. No, no, I shan't have a king at my service, though I will always be happy to be of yours," Bilbo told him. He still stared, watching and Thorin's smile widened and showed a hint of teeth.

"And may I come in?" he asked politely. "I would hate to think that Dwalin is a more welcomed guest than I."

Behind him, Dwalin snorted loudly and Bilbo realized he was standing there with the door mostly closed, leaning out as he goggled at Thorin. Hurriedly, he stepped back and allowed Thorin inside. "Of course, of course, you're both quite welcome."

"Thank you," Thorin said, gravely, and he drew off his own cloak, hanging it himself on the row of hooks in the foyer. Beneath it, his clothes were simple, nothing like the extravagant robes he'd worn the last time Bilbo had seen him, standing before the throne with his eyes still weary, his face creased with pain. Both Thorin and Dwalin's clothing was travel-stained and Bilbo wondered how long they'd been on the road.

"I…er…were your travels well then?" Bilbo blurted, hastily hanging Dwalin's cloak next to Thorin's.

"Aye, not bad. Only got lost the once this time," Dwalin said gruffly, ignoring Thorin's hiss, "After that, he let me take the lead." Whatever argument seemed to be broiling between the two of them was interrupted by a small, sleepy voice coming from the hallway.

"Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo knuckled at his eyes sleepily, "Is something going on?" As one, they all went still and Bilbo watched as the three of them took in each other in silence.

Slowly, Thorin folded down to one knee, giving Frodo a grave look, "And who might you be, _akhûnith_?"

Even kneeling, Frodo had to look up to meet Thorin's eyes and he gave the Dwarf a suspicious frown. "I don't know that word."

Dwalin snorted and turned away, and Thorin smiled, "I called you 'young one' in my own tongue, but perhaps I am mistaken. I know little of Hobbits; perhaps you are Bilbo's grandfather, then? If so, I'm honored to meet such a venerable Elder."

Again, Frodo blinked up at him, chewing his lower lip as though trying to decide if he was being mocked. "No, I'm Bilbo's nephew. He takes care of me."

"Indeed," Thorin said gravely. "He does well at taking care of people."

That, it seemed, finally endeared him to the boy and Frodo smiled brightly, then seemed to remember his manners, bowing to Thorin, "Frodo Baggins, at your service!"

Thorin returned it, solemnly, "Thorin Oakenshield, at yours."

"Would you like some tea?" Frodo asked him politely, "There are oat cakes, too, I think, and if not, Uncle Bilbo is a very good cook."

"Aye, that I well recall," Dwalin broke in. "Well then, Master Baggins, are you to feed us dinner or shall we stand gabbling in the foyer for the night."

Bilbo startled, jolting into motion as he quickly gathered the satchels Dwalin had dropped in the middle of the floor, setting them aside as he prattled out, "Of course, of course, come in the both of you. Another dinner is hardly a fuss and Frodo and I both enjoy a late night snack, don't we, my boy?"

"Yes, sir, Uncle Bilbo, sir," Frodo agreed, his large eyes still a trifle wary but less so now that food was an option.

"Thank you," Thorin said to them both. Dwalin only grunted and strode in the direction of the kitchens, and likely the pantry if Bilbo knew him. Already he was calculating in his head its contents; leftover ham, he thought, and plenty of sausages, and the tomatoes were just ripe, that at least was a vegetable Dwalin would eat.

* * *

><p>If it were possible, Dwalin's table manners were even worse than Bilbo recalled. He ate with his hands as much as the silverware and when he did deem a fork worthy, he wielded it as though it were a shovel. Naturally, Frodo found this entire exchange to be fascinating, not at all put off by Dwalin's scowling expression.<p>

Thorin's manners were more befitting a King, though he did eat with the marked enthusiasm of one who was either extremely hungry or extremely appreciative of the cook's efforts. Bilbo chose to believe it was both and where his neighbors had tried his patience with their comings and goings, Bilbo was more than pleased to offer his skills to these two.

When they finally pushed their plates aside with a sigh, mugs that Frodo had been helpfully refilling for them in hand, Bilbo's curiosity had reached the boiling point. Just what were these two doing here in the Shire, of all places?

Of course it would be Frodo who beat him to the questions. "Are you Uncle Bilbo's Dwarf friends?" he demanded, his eyes wide and curious.

"I would like to believe so, yes," Thorin replied. He and Bilbo both blinked as Frodo took it upon himself to climb up on the Dwarf's knee. Bold as the lad was, he was not usually taken with strangers. Thorin brushed aside Bilbo's automatic protest, settling Frodo so that the boy might look up at him solemnly.

"And were you really nearly eaten by trolls?" Frodo asked and Thorin pursed his lips, obviously fighting a smile. Dwalin didn't bother, laughing aloud and pounding the table with a fist hard enough that the silverware jumped about.

"Aye, that we did!" Dwalin chortled, "I'd nearly forgotten that!"

"Not our finest moment," Thorin agreed, slanting Bilbo a glance, "Though it was a testament to your Uncle's cleverness. I can see why he might have told you that story."

Frodo nodded eagerly. "He tells me lots of stories! He told me that you traveled through Goblin caves and rode on Eagles and fought a dragon!"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Thorin laughed. He lowered his voice, peering down at Frodo solemnly. "And did he tell you there were spiders as well? And how he helped us escape when we were imprisoned by Elves?"

Frodo nodded so vigorously that his hair bobbed along with his chin. "Yes! Is it true? Did he really fight the spiders and then name his sword Sting for it?"

"Doubting the word of your Elders, boy?" Dwalin growled and Thorin hushed him with a hard glare.

"Oh, it's all true, and more than that, I'm sure," Thorin looked up at Bilbo and his eyes were fond. "He was quite the hero, our burglar."

Weakly, Bilbo smiled in return, ignoring the warm flutter in his belly. Far too much tea today, he supposed. "I don't know if I was all that heroic."

"And now you doubt the word of a King," Dwalin shook his head as though despairing the minds of Hobbits. "I see it is a family trait."

Frodo's eyes went wide as a tea saucer. "Are you a King then?" he asked, hushed.

"Aye, he is," Dwalin said firmly. "So mind yourself, lad."

Frodo nodded again, then promptly seemed to forget, bouncing lightly on Thorin's knee. "Is that a sword?" he pointed at Thorin's back, where Orcrist was still strapped. "Do you have a sword like Uncle Bilbo?"

"I do." Thorin set Frodo on his feet and pulled the sword free. The shimmering hiss of it leaving the sheath struck such memories in Bilbo that he shivered, closing his eyes as he remember carrying the weight of Sting. Thorin held the sword out for Frodo to see, though he cautioned, "Do not touch. Eyes only, _akhûnith_."

He needn't have bothered with the caution. Frodo tucked both hands behind his back, fingers clenched, as he leaned over the sword and devoured it with his eyes. It was as lovely as in Bilbo's memories, still unmarked, and he longed to join Frodo and simply stare.

Finally, Frodo frowned, looking up at Thorin, "It's not like Uncle Bilbo's sword at all."

Dwalin guffawed, "No, good to know you have your Uncle's sharp eye and can see that the blade of a King does not resemble a pocket knife!"

Bilbo sputtered in dismay and Thorin shook his head with a sigh. "Pay him no mind," he said, casting Dwalin a sad glance. "Travel, I think, has softened his mind."

Dwalin snorted, "Aye, my mind has been like a pudding since we left Erebor and soft beds to venture here."

"Yes, here," Bilbo added, weakly, "Why are you-"

"Your Uncle's sword is not like mine," Thorin said, sheathing Orcrist and drowning out Bilbo's timid question. "Yet, it served him well. It served us all." He knelt again to Frodo, to meet his large eyes. "Never forget, it is not the sword, but the one who wields it."

From Frodo's worshipful expression, this would be a lesson he would certainly never forget.

* * *

><p>With swords put away and another round of drinks and dessert set out, the dishes laid in the washbasin, Bilbo finally joined them at the table. His only drink was a small glass of wine, as he'd had enough tea today for a week's worth of teatime and Dwalin could probably finish off the keg in the pantry on his own.<p>

Somewhere between clearing the table and returning, Frodo had clambered up into Thorin's lap again and now the boy was drowsing, one small hand clutching Thorin's shirt front as the Dwarf braced him with an arm around his shoulders.

When Frodo began to burrow into Thorin's chest, his mouth leaving a patch of dampness on the fine fabric, Bilbo finally stood, holding out his arms to take him, "Here, I'll get him back to bed."

Only to have Thorin resisting Bilbo's attempts, gently lifting Frodo's slight form into his arms. His little nephew never stirred, arms curled laxly over his chest. "I have him," Thorin said, low, "Only lead me to his room."

There seemed no reasonable way to protest that a King did not need to be tucking a small Hobbit child into bed, and so Bilbo did as he was asked, tidying the mussed covers and helping Thorin tuck the limp child beneath them. It was Thorin who pulled the blankets up to Frodo's chin, smoothing the coverings and his eyes were oddly soft.

Bilbo swallowed a thickness in his throat and thought it did not take much imagining to realize just who Thorin was remembering. They crept back out silently, Bilbo always padding quietly on Hobbity floors and Thorin simply light on his feet despite his heavy boots.

When they got back to the kitchen, Bilbo noted with quiet bemusement that Dwalin was already halfway done with the cookie jar, crunching through them enthusiastically.

"You keep them in the same place, I see. Good, these," Dwalin mumbled around his mouthful, his beard scattered with crumbs. "Left a few for the boy."

Bilbo eyed the jar and its two lonely occupants, "Kind of you."

Thorin settle back into his chair with a barely masked groan, "He seems a good boy, polite. Curious as well, a good sign of a clever mind. How did he come to stay here with you?" Thorin slanted him a sharp look, "I thought at first he was yours, but he's a little too old for that, unless you left him tucked away somewhere while you were off with us."

Bilbo's wine was a decent vintage, though the taste seemed to sour on his tongue as he thought back on that. "No, not mine, though he's of my blood. I've only had him this past year. His parents were lost some six months before that, terrible business." He raised an eyebrow at Thorin, "You might recall that Hobbits are not much as swimmers?"

Despite the graveness of Bilbo's tale, Thorin's mouth quirked up for a moment, "I do recall something like that, yes."

Bilbo nodded, taking another sip of wine to wet his dry mouth, "His parents were no exception, though they were fond enough of boating. There was an accident of some sort and both were drowned."

"A grave loss for a young boy," Dwalin said gruffly, startling Bilbo. He added nothing more, taking a deep draught from his mug.

"It was," Bilbo agreed softly. "His mother was quite an interesting lass herself. I do still miss her. Frodo stayed with other relatives for a time, but—" Bilbo thinned his lips said nothing at how he'd found the child when he'd gone to visit. Pale and listless, he'd seemed little more than a ghost himself, existing rather than living. The Sacksville-Baggins children took after their mother more than not and Bilbo could not have stood leaving his sweet cousin's child in that household a moment longer. "It took a little convincing and some coins out of my pocket, but eventually I was allowed to take him in."

"You seem to have done well by him," Thorin said, softly, and there it was again, that soft, unsettling fondness in his eyes and Bilbo took a nervous sip of his wine even as a blush crept up his cheeks.

"I've tried," Bilbo admittedly, then cleared his throat pointedly, very certain that these two hadn't traveled all the way to the Shire to talk to him about his orphaned nephew, "And how goes the rebuilding of Erebor? And the others, how do they fare?"

"It goes apace. The dragon kept mainly to the treasure rooms and so most of the city had fallen to neglect, not destruction, and stone endures," Thorin said. "Not a day passes without travelers arriving at our gates; those returning to their long-lost home and those who wish our sanctuary alike."

A low, muttered growl came from Dwalin, as though perhaps he had a thing or two to say about that. He kept his words to himself or else buried them into his mug and Thorin paid him no mind.

"The others, now," Thorin took out his pipe, filling and lighting it while Bilbo waited with impatience, his memories warring with curiosity over how his friends were faring. "They are well, all of them. Bofur and his kin have riches aplenty from their share and yet they've returned to their old professions, delighting the children of Erebor and Laketown alike with their toy making skills."

Bilbo nodded, smiling warmly at his memory of Bofur's easy face and it was not difficult to imagine his delight at gifting children like Frodo with the fruits of his labor. Though he wondered curiously what sort of toys Bifur might create and thought perhaps it better not to ask.

"Ori took on a 'prenticeship with the scholar folk," Dwalin added unexpectedly. "Another bright lad, he is. Dori stays alongside him and coddles him as much as ever." His mouth twisted, "And Nori is still getting into far too many scrapes for a Dwarf of his age; he's lucky to be rich enough to buy himself free of them."

"Gloin called for his wife and son to join him, and they are well. Oin stays with them," Thorin said thoughtfully. "They seem content as they are, I see them but rarely."

"And Balin?" Bilbo asked, a touch worriedly that they had not included him. He had not been young even when they'd begun their quest. "He is well?"

Dwalin let out a contemptuous snort, "My brother has resumed his position as an advisor to the King," he said distastefully. "He is there now, cooing at the elbow of the Steward, no doubt. Couldn't join us, he said, someone with a grain of intelligence needed to remain behind, he said."

"And he was correct," Thorin said mildly, "I trust Dáin to rule well in my absence, but no leader should be without advisors to guide their choices."

That seemed the moment to ask just why they were traveling to begin with; though Bilbo was more than pleased to have them at his table and hearth, he was admittedly curious as to what these two were doing off on their own, far from home and here of all places. Perhaps they had business in the Blue Mountains, though why Thorin could not send an ambassador, Bilbo did not know.

Before he could ask, Dwalin's face split with an enormous yawn, hardly able to be smothered beneath his large hand. Aghast, Bilbo took in the hour and of course they would be exhausted, given how far they'd been traveling.

"Oh, and here I am keeping you up!" Bilbo fussed, leaping from his chair. "You must be ever so tired. Come now, I'll show you to a room—"

"Think we recall where they are," Dwalin broke in around another yawn. "Get yourself to bed, we can find our own."

"At least allow me to pretend to be a host," Bilbo told him, exasperated, "Come along, this way. Sleep as long as you like, breakfast can wait for you both."

"Kipped in front of the fire, last time," Dwalin rumbled out, casting a sly eye at Thorin, "Kings need softer beds, though, I'm sure, delicate things that they are."

The slap at the back of his head was hard enough to echo, and Bilbo winced, cringing away from Thorin's fierce glare even not directed at him, "How is it that traveling with you has led to such disrespect?"

"Once you've pissed with someone long enough, respect falls off to the wayside," Dwalin said easily and Bilbo blushed again. That was, admittedly, a part that was not often mentioned about adventures. Eventually, everyone needed to void their bladder and he'd quickly learned there was not always a nearby tree to hide behind.

"If it wouldn't wake the boy, I'd take a moment to show you just how delicate I am," Thorin warned darkly.

To see Dwalin grin in such a way that could only be described as cheeky would surely give Bilbo nightmares, "Keep your promises," he sang out, stepping into the guest room that Bilbo hastily pointed out. "I prefer your threats and those you can give me on the morrow."

He shut the door behind him firmly, leaving Thorin to glower at the wooden barrier until Bilbo cleared his throat, drawing his attention. Irritation shifted to rueful and Thorin shook his head, sighing out, "And he used to be such a loyal guardian."

"Seems as though he's more like a loyal friend, these days," Bilbo ventured and Thorin's smile deepened.

"Aye, he is at that," Thorin agreed, "It'll be a shame to behead him in the morning. Good night, then." He nodded at Bilbo and took to his own room, seemingly oblivious to Bilbo's aghast face and his silent, fervent hope that Thorin had only been teasing. Surely a decapitation would put all the Shire off breakfast for the next decade.

Well, perhaps a week.

His own bed was calling; his early morning combined with a late night was mixing into a fair case of exhaustion. Still, the blank pages in his study clamored louder, begging for his attention and Bilbo gave in to their plea, padding silently in and setting his candle atop his desk.

Thorin's voice was fresh in his mind as he wrote, forgoing the tale of the trolls for that of Erebor and a Dwarven Prince, his home lost and his people destitute, and his determination that they not remain so. He wrote of strength and loyalty and bitter loss, until the candle burned low and his eyes were aching with sleepiness and only then did Bilbo retire for the night, setting out his pages to dry.

* * *

><p>end chapter one<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

His rest was fitful, cluttered with dreams more than half memory though less than truth and Bilbo woke long before dawn without even a playful nephew to blame. He gave up sleeping as a loss, rising in the greyness of early morning to stoke the kitchen fire. The others would surely sleep for some time yet, perhaps even Frodo given his late night, and Bilbo set out a plate of scones for them all, setting the kettle by the fire to heat for tea.

For once, his own stomach was reasonably quiet, his overindulgence the previous day keeping hunger at bay and he took only a single scone, slathering it with only a bit of jam before making his way back to his study. The pages he'd written with such care the night before were perfectly dry and he turned to another blank one, his pen at the ready.

The words flowed with ease, borne, perhaps, of his company the night before and Bilbo wrote with passion, hardly noticing the quiet voices that eventually came from his kitchen, nor even the smell of tea. Until Frodo came bearing a cup and saucer with great care, setting it still steaming at Bilbo's elbow.

He thanked the lad absently, not even looking up from the pages. Until he realized the boy had not yet left, rocking back and forth on his feet. "I'm dressed!" Frodo announced, as though this were something to be greatly admired.

"I see that you are," Bilbo agreed.

Which did not seem to be the proper answer, because Frodo frowned, clarifying, "So that we can do the shopping. I'm dressed, so we can be off whenever you are ready."

Ready was something Bilbo certainly was not, still in his dressing gown and robe, his pen hovering over the page. He was only perhaps a quarter of a way through the part where the first Dwarf, Dwalin as it were, had arrived at his door and Bilbo was reluctant to abandon it with the words flowing so freely.

"Perhaps we can do the shopping later, Frodo?" Bilbo asked, hopefully, "I really would like to finish this chapter today."

"But Uncle Bilbo, we always go to the market on Wednesday," Frodo said in a small voice.

In his chest, Bilbo's heart cramped. It was true; he and Frodo had made a habit of going to the market at midweek. That was the day Pansy Bracegirdle made fresh sesame cakes and the two of them always managed to wrangle a few from her, eating them as they browsed through the different stands, looking over the various wares that were offered, both the familiar and the exotic.

There were also the guests to consider; Dwarves were nothing if not hungry and would give the sturdiest Hobbit a run for their coin. Yes, they would need to do a little shopping, though Bilbo cast his writing a wistful look. Only to be startled by a deep voice from the hall.

"Dwalin and I can take him," Thorin said, stepping through the doorway. And again, Bilbo's heart cramped, for entirely different reasons. Thorin was dressed in a simple blue tunic, the sleeves delicately embroidered and laced closed at the chest. It was belted at the waist and again, the buckle was simple, nothing like the elaborate clasps Bilbo had seen him wearing before. His armor he'd left off and that was a rare sight indeed; even with Erebor reclaimed Bilbo had hardly ever seen him without it.

He was undeniably handsome and it proved enough of a distraction for Bilbo not to realize at first what he'd said. When he did, Bilbo could only sputter a moment, mind awhirl at the very thought, "You…" he stammered, "You and Dwalin? Oh, dear, no, I couldn't possibly allow you to—"

The look Thorin gave him was long familiar, a mixture of exasperation and pique at the mere suggestion that Bilbo might _allow_ him to do anything. "Dwalin and I dwelt in the world of Men for many years, and, yes, we did on occasion require food," he said dryly, "I believe we can manage to navigate through one small marketplace."

"Oh, but—" Bilbo tried, but Frodo's small face was shining with delight; surely in his mind he was already off to the market with his new friends, eager and proud to show all of Hobbiton their guests, "You're…you're guests," Bilbo finished, weakly.

"I'm no more a guest here than you were at Erebor," Thorin said and the warmth in his voice sent a matching tingle up Bilbo's spine.

"Well…" Bilbo cast his book another longing glance, "Perhaps you can just get a few things."

Both of them watched in amusement as Frodo clapped his hands in delight. "I'll get my jacket!" he cried, darting away, nearly running straight into Dwalin.

"And what sort of scrape is that one heading for?" Dwalin growled and Bilbo could not help but notice _he_ had not abandoned his armor.

"_We_ are heading to the marketplace with him," Thorin said, with sunny, and obviously false, enthusiasm, clapping Dwalin roughly on the shoulder hard enough that he staggered forward a step. He turned back to Bilbo as though oblivious to the other Dwarf's ferocious scowl, "Make us a list and we will handle it."

Bilbo snatched up a scrap of paper, scribbling down a few items that would make good additions to dinner, adding a note to pick up Frodo a sesame cake first. Glancing up at the two of them, Thorin watching him expectantly and Dwalin watching him…like Dwalin, Bilbo bit his lip, "Perhaps I should come along after all-"

"Bilbo," Thorin said, halting his words with the weight of his exasperation.

He threw up his hands in surrender, handing over his hastily written list. "Oh, very well! But, could you possibly not mention to anyone that you're a King?"

"And why should my King have any shame in his lineage?" Dwalin glowered at him.

"I only mean it might be awkward! The Hobbits of the Shire are rather the simple sort; they aren't used to Kings and warriors doing their shopping at the market."

Dwalin was turning a ruddy shade of furious and Thorin gave him an impatient wave, "Let it be. We're here as visitors, not to lord over Bilbo's neighbors. We're merely Thorin and Dwalin, guests at Bag End, and we need only a few small things." He gave Bilbo a nod and Bilbo noted with resignation how terribly regal it was. Asking Thorin not to be a King, indeed. Perhaps he might also ask the Dwarf if he'd care to stop breathing for a time or offer an Elf a kiss, it seemed just as likely.

The patter of Frodo's bare feet running back to them stopped any thoughts of changing his mind, and Thorin gave the lad a gentle smile as he laid a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the door, "We'll be back soon."

If only that didn't seem so ominous.

Sitting back at his desk, Bilbo soon forgot his trepidation as he was once again quickly absorbed in his book. He'd just reached the part where the Dwarves had begun tossing about his tableware, giggling to himself all the while, when a knock at the door startled him. The sun was considerably further along than he'd thought and Bilbo hopped to his feet, hurrying to answer it as all his worries came rushing back.

To find Thorin and Dwalin waiting for him with full arms, both of them laden with enough packages that even Dwalin was staggering beneath their weight. Or perhaps it was the addition of one small Hobbit child that was nearly tipping him over because Bilbo could not help but stare, mouth agape, at the sight of Frodo perched happily on one broad shoulder, one sticky hand gripping Dwalin's bald pate and the other clutching a piece of sesame cake large enough to feed three children.

"What…what have you done?" Bilbo wailed, stepping hastily aside as Dwalin ducked through the doorway, heaving his burden along with him.

"It was a strange thing," Thorin said mildly, following Dwalin as he juggled his own packages. "At first, it seemed the market might be closed. None of the shopkeepers seemed able to sell us anything. But Dwalin spoke to them and suddenly, there were items in abundance. Everyone seemed happy to assist us and none of them even asked for a coin. Perhaps Gandalf was right, Hobbits are remarkably friendly creatures."

Bilbo stood dumbly, watching the two of them unload their burdens in the pantry. "Oh, I am going to be run out of the Shire," Bilbo muttered, mentally planning to pack a bag to set aside if ever he and Frodo needed to escape in the middle of the night.

"I still paid them of course," Thorin went on. "I would not want anyone to think we were taking advantage of their generosity."

Frodo beamed down at Bilbo from his perch, his cheeks bulging with cake, "Mister Dwalin was loud!" he announced happily.

"A bit of," Dwalin allowed, gruffly, and it seemed to Bilbo that he pretended not to see when Bilbo reached to take Frodo.

"Yes, a bit of," Thorin agreed, casting a glare at the other. "He did promise to be quieter from here on out."

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo peered down at him, seriously, "What's a pasty-arsed skinflint?"

If Bilbo had thought there was a chance he might be run out of the Shire, now he was certain of it. He looked at Thorin in horror, hardly noticing the small package that was thrust into his hands.

Thorin coughed, surely hiding a grin behind his hand, "He also promises to have a care with his language."

"It was true," Dwalin said with curt succinctness, striding out of the pantry with a crowing Frodo still clinging to him like an oversized burr. Bilbo only stood, clutching the package Thorin had given him and watching as the King Under the Mountain added a loaf of fresh bread to the box in the corner.

"Are you going to open that?" Thorin asked him politely and Bilbo blinked, looking down at the brown paper-wrapped package in his hands. The string snapped easily and he opened it to find a generous serving of Pansy's sesame cake, cut into hand-sized pieces.

"I was asked to give that to you by a young lady," Thorin told him and his voice was carefully neutral. A few of Farmer Maggot's prized tomatoes found a home in an empty bowl and Thorin added it to the shelf alongside Bilbo's own homegrown.

"Ah, yes," Bilbo nodded. "I'm rather surprised she wrapped it for you, it's quite popular. Frodo and I usually have to arrive early to get even a small piece."

"I believe it was you she was wrapping it for." Again, carefully neutral and Thorin was giving the groceries the same sort of deep attention he might have given a plan for war.

Bilbo coughed, clumsily folding the paper around the cakes again. "I suppose that's possible. Bit of a waste of her time, I'm afraid."

"Indeed?" Thorin asked, vaguely. The flick of his eyes at Bilbo, though, was blade-sharp, taking in every nuance.

"Indeed. I've little interest in Hobbit lasses," Bilbo smiled, a little, "No matter how superb their baking."

Thorin hummed softly, less agreement than commiseration and said, "Frodo was a joy at the marketplace. He is a good lad."

"He is," Bilbo agreed and this time his smile was wide and fond. Only to turn puzzled as Thorin stilled, hands resting on the shelf.

"He puts me in mind of Kili and Fili," Thorin told him quietly, his voice soft with grief, and Bilbo had known that without him having to say a word. He stepped forward unthinkingly, laying a hand upon Thorin's chest.

"I think of them often as well," Bilbo told him, softly. Of their mischievous smiles and joint laughter, their fierceness in battle, defending their friends and family. He tried not to think of their burial, of the day that laughter was forever silenced.

"Every day," Thorin said, like a confession, and his large hand closed over Bilbo's. He had no sense of how long they stood there, sharing a gaze and their silent sorrow. Thorin's eyes searched Bilbo's, for what he did not know, and his hand was warm, holding Bilbo's over his own heart.

And then a bright shout of laughter broke that heavy silence, followed by small, Hobbity feet as Frodo dashed in, his hair tousled and crumbs still clinging to his shirtfront. "Did you see," he asked, excitedly, "Miss Pansy gave us an extra cake just for you! She never does that, never ever, but Thorin told her that—"

"And are you going to allow me to put all this away on my own, young man?" Thorin asked, loudly, letting Bilbo's hand slip away. "I'm sure your uncle has taught you better manners than that."

Frodo bobbed his head eagerly, "I can help! I help really good!"

"You help very well," Thorin corrected gently, then sagged into a chair with an exaggerated sigh. "And very well that you are here to help, I believe I am too exhausted to continue."

Frodo crept over with wide, worried eyes, "Are you hurt? Did you carry too much? Uncle Bilbo got hurt once and he had to put his foot up for three whole days and not walk, and—" He squealed aloud as Thorin snatched him up, tickling the little hobbit until he shrieked, convulsing with laughter.

Bilbo only watched them, smiling, and if there was a sadness to it, there was none who might question him. He watched Thorin set Frodo gently back on his feet, the two of them solemnly sorting through the rest of the parcels as Bilbo thought of two mischievous young Dwarves, imagined the both of them playing happily just so with their adored uncle.

"Not there," Thorin chided, unaware of the wistful turn to Bilbo's thoughts. "Your uncle is very particular about his pantry. Let's make sure we put everything in its proper place."

"Yes, sir," Frodo said, and he gravely moved the packet of biscuits to the correct shelf. "Uncle puts cookies in the jar by the table."

"I think perhaps we might do better to secret them in here," Thorin leaned down to whispered in Frodo's ear, and Bilbo could only stare in astonishment as Thorin cast him a mischievous wink. "Otherwise, Dwalin will have them all by nightfall."

Frodo giggled and complied, tucking the parcel behind a bowl of apples, and Bilbo let some of his sorrow fade. Perhaps it was not Frodo alone who held a reminder of Kili and Fili inside.

* * *

><p>It seemed their journey to the marketplace had only cemented Frodo's worship of Dwalin, though Bilbo could only wonder at what went on in the Dwarf's mind. Whatever it was, it appeared he had silently and without permission appointed himself as Frodo's guardian and when the lad had gone off to play with his friends, Dwalin had followed, a hulking shadow trailing at Frodo's skipping heels.<p>

Samwise had only offered a shy smile at Frodo's delighted introduction, his brown eyes large and cautious. Meriadoc, scamp that he was, had looked the Dwarf up and down before announcing, "I can beat you up!"

And promptly put word to action by kicking Dwalin in the shin.

Dwalin had collapsed in an exaggerated paroxysm of pain, clutching his ankle and groaning, and when Merry had worriedly gone to him, already spilling apologies, Dwalin grabbed the child and tickled him until his delighted shrieks could be heard through the Shire.

For the rest of the morning, three little Hobbits trailed behind Dwalin like ducklings following their mother to water, and once, when another fellow failed to reply to Frodo's cheery greeting, Bilbo had heard Dwalin snarl out, "He said good afternoon!"

Suddenly, the mannerly nature of Hobbiton increased tenfold in moments. Bilbo bit his tongue and let it be, supposing that a lesson in manners wasn't completely untoward.

Now they were atop the hill, Frodo, Samwise, and Merry playing with Dwalin, or something like it. He had a boy on each arm, another astride his shoulders, climbing atop him as though he were a particularly hairy tree. Dwalin bore his burden stoically, though Bilbo fretted.

"He needn't let them trouble him so," Bilbo told Thorin worriedly. "They can be overwhelming at times."

Thorin only shook his head. "Send the children away and he will only complain the more for it. He was much the same with my nephews."

If his guests had any plans to journey on they said not so and Bilbo found he was strangely reluctant to ask. There were Dwarves at his table again and in his life, and to ask them when they would be leaving seemed more of an invitation for them to go. Better, perhaps, to accept them as they were and Bilbo simply went on with his day as he would have without a King at his heels.

Thorin had chosen to sit on Bilbo's favorite bench, pipe in hand as he watched Bilbo root through his vegetable garden for weeds. Bilbo mopped at his forehead with his pocket handkerchief, for the afternoon was already quite warm even without gardening. Thorin was watching him with strange intensity, casting the occasional glance up at the children, who shouted and squealed with laughter.

It was strange, perhaps, Bilbo mused, to see Thorin so…relaxed. Content for once to simply smoke his pipe, and without his regal garb, he might have been a particularly tall and broad Hobbit. Bilbo imagined Thorin with bare, hairy feet and had to stifle a smile. Well, perhaps not.

And while it was all well and good to enjoy the sunshine, this gardening would not finish itself, and Bilbo went back to his vegetables. Somewhere at the summer peas, Thorin's gaze upon him began to prickle, and Bilbo gave him a considering look.

"You could help me, if you like," Bilbo offered and Thorin froze, his pipe an inch from his mouth as his brows drew together, as though Bilbo had spoken to him in a language he did not understand. Thorin looked honestly flummoxed, such a rare look on him that Bilbo couldn't help but find it endearing.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," Thorin admitted.

"Come now," Bilbo teased. "You'll face down a dragon but not bear a little mud?"

That did the trick. With a firm scowl in place, Thorin tapped his pipe out on the heel of his boot and set it aside, approaching as though going to his own execution. Bilbo gestured grandly to the spot next to him and Thorin knelt, eyeing the plants before him. "And what is it we are doing?"

"Weeding," Bilbo explained. "It's quite relaxing, really."

"Weeding," Thorin repeated as though tasting a foul word. Bilbo thought he might say Elf with more affection.

"Yes, weeding. We want to pull out any rascally wilders that are threatening the vegetables. Do you see?" Bilbo tugged out a small thistle that had just begun to sprout.

"All I see are green things," Thorin admitted.

"Well, any green things that don't look like my tomatoes need to go."

Thorin went slowly, hesitating over every weed until Bilbo nodded approval. Slowly, he gained confidence, clearing away even the tiniest weedlings. His hands were dirty, as were his sleeves, but Thorin seemed to pay that no mind, concentrating on eliminating the weedy element of Bilbo's garden with the intensity he might use for smiting orcs.

"You said these were prize winning tomatoes," Thorin asked, wiping a rivulet of sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

"Oh, yes," Bilbo said proudly. "Ten years running now. Well, minus the year I spent traveling with you lot."

"You have quite the garden."

"You have no idea whether I do or not, but I will take the compliment in the spirit it was intended. These tomatoes are my prizes, but the cabbages do quite well also. The carrots are in fine health this year, though the early frost did in my strawberries. I do grow a little pipe weed, but I do believe I only smoke it in defiance, it hardly compares to old Toby." Bilbo smiled embarrassedly, "This must be dreadfully boring to you."

Thorin pulled out another sprouting thistle, wincing as the tiny prickles dug into his fingers before he cast it into the basket. He paused only to give Bilbo a faint smile, "Nothing that you love so would be boring to me."

It seemed like there should be something Bilbo had to say about that, but before he could puzzle out just what that was, an unpleasantly familiar voice shattered the peace of their afternoon with its shrillness. "Bilbo Baggins!"

Bilbo cringed and very much wished for a chance to use his ring before he was spotted; a vain hope, for Lobelia was already striding up the garden path. Dressed very much as though she were on her way to a party of some sort rather than visiting family, and she even carried a parasol, something of a waste to Bilbo's mind since a little sun could only improve her sour expression. She had the little umbrella clutched in her hand like a sword, which was quite the comparison, for Bilbo was sure that she would be delighted to shove either through his heart.

"Good morning, cousin," Lobelia said smartly, tapping her parasol on the stone path. How it was that such a lovely woman could be such a harridan, Bilbo did not know.

"Good morning, Lobelia," Bilbo said with weary politeness. "What might I do for you?"

"I came to check on Frodo, of course," she said, her voice sweet with false consideration. "What sort of Aunt would I be if I didn't see how the child was faring, living in solitude with his uncle? Where is the little hooligan?" She looked about as if expecting to see the boy crawl out from beneath the tomato plants. "Off playing with the farmer's children in the dirt, I suppose."

"I would hardly call Frodo a hooligan," Thorin said, coolly. "He's been nothing but a well-behaved, polite child in my presence.

Lobelia cast her hawk-like stare at Thorin as though only just seeing him, though surely she'd heard about him. Likely that was her true reason for coming. "Your presence, indeed," she sniffed, eyeing Thorin's shirt, its dirty sleeves and the sweat staining beneath the arms from working in the sun. "Bilbo, I do so wonder about you. Staying here at Bag End, taking in boys and beggars even after that nasty business with your adventure." She spat the word out as though it personally offended her. "Your reputation in tatters and no wonder. I expect to bring up the matter of Frodo again to the rest of the relatives, mark my words. It's not decent, raising him this way!"

A small cry came from behind them, all of them turning to see Frodo, his face reddened with impending tears and his little fists clenched. The others stood behind him, Samwise and Merry both close to hiding behind Dwalin's bulk as Frodo shouted, "I don't want to leave Uncle Bilbo!"

"Frodo Baggins, you would do well to remember who you are speaking-"

"Frodo," Dwalin interrupted her. "Why don't you and the lads nip into your Uncle's kitchen and find yourselves a snack, aye? There's a good boy."

Frodo shot him a worried glance then did as he was told, Samwise and Merry at his heels. The green door had scarcely shut before Dwalin rounded on Lobelia, towering over her.

Lobelia sputtered indignantly, "Why, you—you—"

"You will apologize to my King," Dwalin told her, shortly.

"Dwalin," Thorin began, sharply, only to be interrupted by Lobelia's shrillness.

"I would not stoop to apologizing to beggars and thieves, I know what sort you Dwarves are and I-"

"I did not stand by him through wars and death, help him battle a dragon to regain his throne, only to travel with him to this little hamlet and allow him to be insulted by the likes of you," Dwalin thundered, and for possibly the first time in her life, Lobelia quailed. "Now, you will apologize to my King!"

"Terribly sorry," she muttered and took a step back, her parasol falling unnoticed from her hands. "A misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Dwalin nodded slowly and some of the murderous rage lifted from him, to Bilbo's great relief. Not that he would have overly minded if Dwalin had taken it upon himself to murder Lobelia, but there were the children to think about.

"And you'll be staying far away from Frodo," Dwalin said, coldly. "He's a good lad, not too big-headed or snotty. Or he won't be, so long as he stays away from the likes of you."

Lobelia sputtered and hissed like a wet cat, sweeping up her skirts and marching down the garden path, her parasol left forgotten in the grass. Bilbo thought he might leave it there.

The three of them watched her storm away; Bilbo in particular was always happy to see her walking away from him rather than towards. So much was he enjoying her retreat that he started when Dwalin knelt stiffly before him, his head bowed.

"I apologize for speaking so to your kin," Dwalin said, stiffly. "But I could not allow such disrespect to my King."

Bilbo laughed aloud and clapped him on one broad shoulder. "My friend, that was an honor and a privilege to witness. All of the Shire will be miserable to think they missed the show!"

"A show, indeed," Thorin drawled and Dwalin hunched over further, his eyes firmly on the ground. "You might consider allowing me to defend my own honor as I see fit?"

"Against that shrew?" Dwalin dismissed it. "You can defend your honor against a worthy opponent; she would have been a waste of your time.

"Yes, a waste of my precious gardening time," Thorin said, dryly. "Thank you ever so much for defending me from that."

The sound of someone calling Bilbo's name caught their attention and the three of them turned to see Hamfast Gamgee puffing up the garden path, his cheeks flushed red and his broad face anxious. "Mister Bilbo," he called, breathlessly, and he was nearly staggering when he reached them, leaning over with his hands on his knees while he caught his breath.

"Easy, Hamfast," Bilbo went to him and put an arm around his shoulder anxiously. The other Hobbit leaned on him for a moment before Hamfast straightened, mopping at his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Was too late, I was," he huffed, coughing a moment, "Saw her coming up the way and I was trying to warn you." He shook his head sadly, tucking his hanky into his back pocket so that the end hung out like a bright red tail. "That woman, treating you and Frodo so, and her family! Not proper, it isn't, not at all!"

"I'm hardly known for my own properness," Bilbo pointed out, a touch wryly and Hamfast scoffed aloud.

"Gossip is all that is!" he said stoutly. "Gossip and jealousy! Fellow goes off and does something about the world and suddenly folks forget who it is they are speaking about! Don't see nobody turning away your coin, that's what I see. Snobs and better-than-thou's, all of them." He gave Bilbo an earnest look and clasped the hand Bilbo had laid on his shoulders. "You took in Frodo to do right by him. There's people who see you true, Mister Bilbo, and that's a fact."

"Thank you, Hamfast," Bilbo said, kindly, and blinked as he recalled they still had an audience. Dwalin and Thorin both watching them, unreadable expressions on both their faces, as though they'd been carved of stone like the tales said.

"Hamfast, this is…erm…Dwalin and Thorin, guests of mine," Bilbo said, a little faintly and more than a little confused at his friends' sudden coolness.

"Dwalin?" Hamfast perked up. "You're the fellow my Sam was going on about, are you!" Hamfast bellowed cheerfully. He strode right up to the two of them, snatching up Dwalin's hand. "Good to meet you then! Good to meet you both! Anyone whose friends with Bilbo and my boy can only be good folk!"

"Ah," Dwalin looked somewhat dazed, glancing down at his hand where Hamfast was pumping it eagerly. "He….aye? You're young Samwise's father, then."

"Oh, aye, aye," Hamfast agreed easily, "Our youngest, he is, the wife and I weren't expecting to have another but the lad is a joy, a joy! Was chattering like a magpie about the likes of you at luncheon."

"Yes, he's quite good with the children," Bilbo said and to his delight, bright color spread over Dwalin's face, even tingeing his gleaming bald pate. "He had a thing or two to say to Lobelia as well."

"Did he now!" Hamfast exclaimed, delighted. "Don't condone rudeness, a'course, but if ever there was one to deserve it, it would be that one. Well!" He slapped his thigh heartily, "I'd say I owe you a thanks or two for that alone! You'll have to come over for supper tomorrow night. I'd say tonight but best give the wife a chance to plan, she'd scold me right proper having guests without warning, she would."

Dwalin rather looked like he'd prefer another dinner at Rivendell and opened his mouth, perhaps to politely refuse but more like to send Hamfast into a dead faint. Only to be cut off as Thorin swiftly put in, "He'd be delighted. Nothing would please him more, I'm sure. Perhaps Frodo might join you? I do hate to invite another along, but it would please the child so."

Hamfast gave a hearty laugh and nodded vigorously, "Aye, it would, always right appreciative of my darling's cooking, there's a good lad. And what's one more mouth, anyhow, might as well make it an even ten!"

If anything, the horror on Dwalin's face only increased, redness fading to a greenish shade, and his beseeching look was ignored as Thorin nodded solemnly, offering Hamfast a handshake of his own, which he took, unconcerned at the dirt. "The both of them, then, tomorrow night."

"Most gracious of you and your wife," Thorin said smoothly, flicking a glance at Dwalin that could only be described as triumphant. Well, that put paid to the delicate comment the night before, Bilbo supposed.

"You and Mister Bilbo are welcome as well," Hamfast offered, "Not to be ignoring you, sir, gracious, no—"

"Alas, Bilbo and I have other matters to attend to," Thorin said gravely, "Though your kindness will be well remembered."

To Bilbo's bemusement, Hamfast went a trifle pink. He supposed there were none immune when Thorin turned the force of his gaze upon them. "Well, I'd best off. Do send Samwise home for suppertime, won't you?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't miss it," Bilbo laughed and Hamfast bobbed his head in laughing agreement, offering a cheery wave as he went back down the path, though Bilbo did not miss the kick he gave Lobelia's parasol in passing.

The three of them stood in silence, watching Hamfast until he disappeared around the corner, whistling cheerily all the while, and with each step he took, Dwalin's expression grew more thunderous, eyes blazing, though he kept the force of his glare away from Thorin.

"I won't forget that," Dwalin gritted out and Bilbo was grateful they were away from his tomatoes, for that voice might have shriveled them on the vine.

"I'm sure you can thank me later," Thorin said with easy calm. "Perhaps you'd care to look in on the children? They've been on their own in Bilbo's kitchen for some time."

With a last snarl, Dwalin stormed away and the door shuddered on its hinges as he closed it behind him. Bilbo watched him, a bit anxiously, his ears straining for childish screams but it seemed the little ones were safe from his tempers.

"I'm not sure if that was exceptionally clever or terribly cruel," Bilbo said, wonderingly.

"Less cruel than beheading," Thorin pointed out lightly and Bilbo's laugh carried over the hill.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 2<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

It was dusk by the time Bilbo coaxed Frodo inside again, Dwalin still at his side. He and Thorin had abandoned the gardening some time before, the two of them washing up to tend to dinner. There was something surreal about preparing food with Thorin, though Bilbo supposed he shouldn't be surprised that he had shown some little skill at cooking. As he'd pointed out before, he and Dwalin had in the past lived amongst Men and probably quite a few other places as well. When the options were learn to cook or starve, well, hunger made chefs of many.

Still, it was strange; the two of them in his kitchen, sharing utensils and the cutting board, Thorin agreeably following Bilbo's direction at the seasonings, less so when Bilbo insisted that more vegetables made for a better meal.

"Frodo is a growing boy," Bilbo told him and Thorin's distasteful look as he peeled carrots made Bilbo hide a smile. To think he would ever have ordered a King to peel carrots, or that he'd ever know a King at all!

Thorin didn't seem particularly Kingly this evening. He'd changed out of his gardening shirt - and Bilbo made a mental note to send it out for washing—and again, the clean one was quite plain. A deep charcoal gray that seemed to reflect the silver in his hair and his sleeves were rolled up, baring his strong forearms. His thick, clever fingers and a small paring knife were pitted against the fiercest carrots of his garden, or so some might think from his expression, clearly visible with his hair pulled back from his face with a leather strip.

It was oddly domestic and Bilbo swallowed at the thickness rising in his throat and instead checked on the sausages. There would be a healthy bit of meat this dinnertime; he wasn't cruel, after all.

Frodo had been a great deal happier about coming inside for the evening when food had been offered as well and he had clamored up on the stool without prompting to wash his hands, instructing Dwalin to do the same.

If Thorin peeling carrots had been a sight, then Dwalin obediently scrubbing his knuckles at the authoritative instruction of a child was a memory to be treasured. Bilbo had had to disguise his laughter with a cough at Frodo's dismay when the tattoos writ on Dwalin's hands would not wash away.

"Should I get more soap?" Frodo asked, concerned, touching the inked symbols with a wary finger.

"Nothing will remove these but a skinning knife," Dwalin told him gruffly, ruffling Frodo's hair with his still wet hands until the boy's hair stood up in unruly tufts.

Dinner had been consumed with great haste, by some more than others, and despite his grumbling, Dwalin gnawed on his share of the carrots, particularly when Frodo told him earnestly they'd help him grow up big and tall. Dwalin had bitten his carrot in half with a sharp click of teeth and chewing it sounded more like he was champing on gravel. Nonetheless, he ate them, plus his fair share of the sausages and ham, and a liberal bit of the potatoes with gravy.

Bilbo had shooed them away afterward, forgoing Frodo's usual chore of drying dishes for the lad to play a little longer. An odd companion, the boy had found, but Bilbo could hardly begrudge him that. His smiles and laughter were a joy and a relief to see and he'd confessed as much to Thorin as the two of them washed up, Bilbo up to his elbows in soapy water and Thorin drying.

"You should have set them both on the dishes," Thorin said, adding a dry plate to his growing pile. "A few chores wouldn't hurt either of them."

"I've seen how Dwalin does the dishes," Bilbo said dryly. "And I think I'd rather not have him teaching Frodo any of his tricks."

Thorin chuckled aloud, the rich, deep sound of it brought an answering smile to Bilbo's face. In all the time they'd known each other, he couldn't recall any moment they'd been so content together, and Bilbo found he was a little disappointed when the last dish was put in its place.

Only to find his sitting room had been turned into a battleground in his absence. Bilbo stepped from his kitchen and nearly impaled his foot on a fleet of wooden soldiers, each standing in careful formation as though preparing to march across the field to join the others who seemed to be engaged in furious battle against their wiliest of enemies, the stuffed toy brigade.

Close by, Dwalin was carefully setting up another regiment, the carved wooden soldiers absurdly small in his hands. Frodo seemed to be in charge of the plush little creatures and Bilbo noticed Frodo's favorite one had a small paper hat atop its fluffy head. Skirting around the troops, he reached down curiously to touch it, only to freeze at Dwalin's roar.

"Do not touch that! That's the leader of the Orc troops!

Bilbo froze, hand hovering over the toy, "Flopsy?"

"Aye!"

"You're using his stuffed rabbit as an Orc leader?" Bilbo asked disbelieving.

"Tis a fearsome rabbit," Dwalin insisted stubbornly and Frodo nodded vigorously.

"I told him it would be perfect!" Frodo exclaimed and Dwalin's mutinous expression told Bilbo this was an argument best left alone.

Thorin stood in the kitchen doorway, studying the formation. "If that is Mount Gundabar," he said, slowly, pointing at a blanket-draped chair in the middle of the room, "Then this is the Battle of the Northern Wastes."

"You always were good at the histories," Dwalin grunted, his brow creased as he struggled to get one of his soldiers to stand upright.

"Good enough to know that you're putting Bolc's army in the wrong place," Thorin told him, just as Dwalin let go of his soldier. It wobbled uncertainly before falling into the others, knocking them down in a chain of defeat.

Whatever he muttered under his breath in his own tongue was enough for Thorin to hiss an admonishment, though Frodo would have less idea what he'd said than Bilbo, who understood none.

"Ah, it wasn't my fault," Dwalin grumbled. "These aren't even on the bottom! If I'd known you were staying with your Uncle, lad, I could have brought you some of the finest toys from Erebor," Dwalin examined one of the soldiers with a frown, "Better than these."

Frodo went still and Bilbo winced, knowing very well where this was heading but helpless to stop the tide of it.

"My father made these for me," Frodo said, low, and Dwalin's frown deepened.

"And fine they are," Dwalin agreed, without missing so much as a beat. "Hobbit workmanship at its best. I only mean to say there are none who can compete with a Dwarf on his mettle when it comes to toy making!"

"I don't want to play soldiers anymore," Frodo announced, gathering up his toys a bit roughly and carrying the box to his room. Dwalin's remorseful expression made Bilbo's heart lurch and hesitantly he laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't trouble yourself, you meant no harm."

"No," Dwalin said gruffly, "But he'll feel that sting regardless. He's young to have lost so much."

"He's managing well enough, but there are times where no one can replace a lost mother or father, hard as I try."

Dwalin scoffed, clapping Bilbo hard enough on the shoulder that he nearly fell to the ground, "You do fine by the boy, just fine. He's a good one." Dwalin gave him a sly, squinty look, "Like his Uncle, I think."

Before Bilbo could do more than smile, Frodo returned, a box in his hand. He beamed up at Dwalin and held out his prize, "Can we do puzzles instead? Please?"

"I think we can manage that," Dwalin rumbled and the both of them were on the floor again in moments, spreading out the pieces in what was surely the most unorganized way possible. Bilbo shook his head and left them to it, padding back to the kitchen. Puzzles, he was sure, made boys hungry and Frodo might like a snack. Come to think of it, he suspected they might make Dwarves hungry as well.

* * *

><p>By the time Bilbo returned with a tray laden with cookies and cups of milk, Thorin had joined them on the floor and the Dwarves were squabbling loudly over whether it was best to begin with the edges or to simple put together whatever pieces seemed to match. Frodo paid them no mind, unconcernedly matching up pieces of sky and cloud.<p>

Bilbo shook his head and set the tray close by, though not so close it might be knocked over by angrily flailing Dwarf arms. He still had a chore or two left to him; Bell Gamgee would be by tomorrow for the laundry and Bilbo took the time to gather what needed cleaned from his own room and Frodo's. He hesitated at Dwalin's door before deciding to let the Dwarf handle his own dirty underthings. At Thorin's door, though, he ducked inside, the memory of what gardening had done to a reasonably fine shirt driving him.

He found the guest room tidy, the coverlet tucked properly over the bed and Thorin's belongings collected neatly in the corner. The shirt was laid over top and Bilbo picked it up, taking in the damage with dismay. It was worse than he remembered; the stains on the cuffs would surely never come out and there was a large tear at the hem. It might be patched, but the patch would show.

Shaking his head in dismay, Bilbo draped it over his arm. He'd give it to Bell anyway and caution her not to be upset if it was unsalvageable. A faint whiff of sweat came from it and unthinkingly Bilbo lifted the shirt to his nose and sniffed lightly.

Perhaps once he would have been highly offended by the scent of hard work, once, a lifetime ago, it seemed. Now all Bilbo smelled was the honest sweat of a day's labor. That and Thorin himself, the heavy, rich depth of it familiar to him and Bilbo was suddenly beset with a memory, atop the stony Carrock and Thorin's sudden embrace there. His face had been pressed close, his hair damp and cool against Bilbo's cheek. The scent of it had been much the same, though then it had also been mingled with the harsh tang of blood. Bilbo found he did not miss that.

Abruptly, he realized he was standing in the middle of the guest room with his face buried in said guest's dirty laundry and he blushed hotly to think of how that would look had Thorin chosen to venture in.

Bilbo draped the shirt back over his arm and quit the room, leaning against the door until some of his fluster left him. Back in the sitting room, he found the puzzle halfway to completion and the plate of cookies had been reduced to one of crumbs.

Thorin was the picture of concentration, his brow creased and the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, and though Bilbo was loathe to interrupt the serious nature of puzzlecrafting, he did take a moment to comment, "I'm terribly sorry, but I think your shirt might be ruined."

"Hmm?" Thorin made an absent sound that turned triumphant as he fitted a piece. "Never mind it, I have others."

"But it's my fault!" Bilbo protested, hugging the shirt to his chest, "I had you on your knees in my garden and did not even consider what damage I might be doing to your wardrobe."

Dwalin hooted out a laugh and whatever it was that Dwalin said in his own language Bilbo did not know, but he could only watch in astonishment as Thorin went slightly pink and snarled a word that Bilbo _did_ know back at him, one that made Bilbo redden at its crassness.

Perhaps he'd best not rule out beheadings at daybreak just yet.

"You should have Mungo make him a shirt," Frodo volunteered, and both Bilbo and Dwalin brightened at the idea. "You always say he is the best tailor in the Shire."

"That's a wonderful idea, Frodo!" Bilbo exclaimed. "And I'll not hear a complaint about the cost. We all know that both of us can more than afford a single shirt; it's the thought that's important."

"Oh, aye, a marvelous idea, lad," Dwalin agreed. He seemed to be attempting to force two mismatched pieces into joining, with little success. "Thorin loves being fitted for clothing, he does. Has as many robes in his rooms as a young lass trying to entice a husband."

The cold hate in Thorin's gaze told Bilbo exactly how much truth there was to that and a bit of his own mischievous nature came awake, as he leapt on the idea eagerly. "Oh, would you? Do come along, he does lovely work. Please," Bilbo wheedled, casting a sly glance at Dwalin. Never let it said he couldn't repay a badly-used friend. Surely this would make up for Dwalin's dinner plans with the Gamgee's the next night.

If anything, Thorin only seemed redder and Bilbo swore he heard teeth grinding before Thorin finally spoke.

"Of course," Thorin gritted out. "However could I miss the chance to gain a new…shirt." He bit off the last word as though the taste of it was bitter.

Bilbo ignored it all, smiling brightly in his delight. Not only was he going to have the opportunity to enjoy Thorin's discomfort at the tailor's, he was also going to see Thorin dressed in one of Mungo's brilliant creations.

"Wonderful!" Bilbo said and again without thinking, he leaned in to give Thorin a quick hug around the shoulders. He felt the Dwarf stiffen and Bilbo cringed, thinking he'd been spending entirely too much time with Frodo. Before he could pull away, Thorin wrapped an arm around him and squeezed him roughly, then dragged him to the ground as Bilbo squawked in protest.

"Come along, then, you can help us finish this," Thorin told him, waving grandly at their creation. Bilbo was sure he saw a few pieces put together in ways that did not fit. "We'll be at it all night if our only help is Dwalin."

"Oh, very well," Bilbo said, less graciously than he felt, and soon they were all absorbed, and the occasional barbed comment volleyed back and forth between the Dwarves only made Bilbo feel all the warmer inside.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was an interesting affair, moreso for Bilbo not having cooked it and instead he'd spent his time scolding Dwalin, as their idea of what constituted a proper morning meal seemed vastly different.<p>

"How could you give him cookies for breakfast?" Bilbo demanded and indeed, Frodo had looked guilty as a cat amidst canary feathers when Bilbo had come in.

"I saw you cooking them," Dwalin said gruffly. "Eggs, milk, flour. You added fruit. Seems a breakfast to me."

"We drank milk, too, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo added, holding up his cup as evidence. "Milk is good!"

"Indeed it is but for breakfast, milk is to be had with porridge or toast or any number of things that do not include cookies," Bilbo said sternly, though his severity eased at Frodo's dejection. "Never mind, lad, you aren't to blame. Is he?" Bilbo added a glare to Dwalin. To little effect as the Dwarf shrugged unconcernedly.

"He was hungry and now he is not. I've done my part." And in the height of insolence, he snagged another cookie himself before wandering out the front door with pipe in hand. In his chair, Frodo nearly quivered, obviously yearning to chase after him and resisting the impulse in the face of Bilbo's displeasure.

Bilbo gave a long sigh and shooed the boy away, "Off with you then, and woe to everyone if they try for cookies at luncheon!"

"Yes, sir!" Frodo chirped and dashed out the door, nearly running into Thorin in his haste. They both winced as the door slammed behind him

"Good morning?" Thorin ventured, doubtfully, and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners made Bilbo suspect he'd heard the entire quarrel.

"Good morning," Bilbo said grumpily. "Do have a seat; it seems we'll only need breakfast for two."

If anything, Thorin's smile widened, hinting at the even line of his teeth as he obediently sat. "Dwalin is a poor father figure, I take it?"

"I took on the chore of fathering and mothering him when I took him in and I'm happy to do it," Bilbo slapped a pan over the fire with more force than was strictly necessary. "It was easier, however, when he didn't have a devious cohort to plot along with. Dwalin is as bad as all his little cousins as one!"

"It is the prerogative of the ones who do not act the part of parent to spoil a child," Thorin pointed out, unhelpfully to Bilbo's mind and he fumed silently as he cooked the breakfast sausages. It was no longer about cookies or breakfasts at all, now it was simply about a point to be made. And vengeance, yes, that tended to be sweet.

He waited until breakfast was plated and Thorin was eating with customary enthusiasm before Bilbo said, sweetly, "You'll be happy to know that Mungo replied to the message I sent and he'll be pleased to keep an appointment with us this morning."

Thorin's fork stopped in midair, the bit of sausage at the end quivering, "The tailor."

"Oh, indeed, he's quite skilled!" Bilbo said enthusiastically. He stood and spread his own arms, offering his clothing as a display of Mungo's talents. Thorin's eyes trailed over him, taking in, Bilbo was sure, his stylish waistcoat, the perfect cut of his trousers and care of the stitch work. Mungo was notoriously temperamental but there were none who would argue that his clothing was not exceptionally well done.

Long moments passed without comment, Thorin simply staring at Bilbo's clothing until he shifted impatiently, demanding, "Do you see then?"

And Thorin startled, dropping his fork with a clatter, "I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Bilbo let out a gusty sigh, "Are Dwarven attentions spans so very short? The clothes, do you see? He's quite skilled."

"Quite," Thorin nodded, shortly, and took a long drink from his cup. Bilbo returned his nod and sat back down to his breakfast just as Thorin added, "I'm sure I will be quite the handsome sight dressed as a Hobbit."

The very thought had Bilbo choking on his eggs and he coughed hard, frantically gulping his own cup of water as Thorin patted him helpfully on the back until Bilbo waved him away, dragging in rough gasps of air.

"You are going to pay for that," Bilbo rasped out, glaring with all the ferocity that he'd learned from watching Dwalin. Thorin grinned at him as he propped his chin on one hand and his eyes were warm.

"I look forward to it," Thorin said, softly, until a pop from the fire broke the moment and the two of them went back to their respective breakfasts, and the silence between them was comfortable in its familiarity.

* * *

><p>Thorin's cheer had abandoned them by the time Bilbo had hurried him out the door on the way to Mungo's. Indeed, his surliness was reminiscent of when he and Bilbo had first met, the only difference being that Bilbo was no longer wary of his tempers. He'd seen Thorin at the lowest point of his life, maddened with gold lust, casting Bilbo from the mountain and worse, kneeling by the tombs of his nephews, his eyes dry and lost, and whatever madness had been within him had been burned cleanly away by grief.<p>

He'd seen Thorin at his very worst and also at his best, taking the throne, leading his people to victory against the Goblin army, and more recently, kneeling on the floor of Bilbo's sitting room with Frodo in his lap as the two of them triumphantly snapped the last puzzle piece into place.

Bilbo had seen entirely too much of Thorin Oakenshield, both his strengths and his weaknesses, to be frightened of his tantrums now.

They passed a few others on their way to Mungo's and Thorin was ever polite to them, at least, although what they made of his imposing bearing, Bilbo did not know. Even dressed plainly, Thorin made quite the figure and he towered over even the tallest of Hobbits.

Bilbo did notice that everyone was excruciatingly polite to their greetings this morning and again, he reminded himself to pack an emergency bag for himself and for Frodo, lest they have to sneak away in the middle of the night. May as well be prepared and all that.

Mungo lived on the other side of Bagshire Row, west of the Water, and the walk was a decent one though refreshing in the cool morning air. Next to him, Thorin kept pace, marching along grimly.

"Come now, why so glum?" Bilbo asked and he was somewhat perplexed at Thorin's reluctance. "You cut a fine figure and have since I met you! I would have thought you'd appreciate a chance at a new shirt as much as I."

Thorin's mouth twisted, "Excellent observation, Master Baggins. I am a Dwarf and I was raised a prince until I took the crown myself. I was reared with an appreciation of a good wardrobe and there's not a Dwarf alive who doesn't enjoy ornamenting themselves in one way or another."

"But—" Bilbo frowned, confused.

"I like wearing a good wardrobe. I have never enjoyed the process of getting one," Thorin shook his head. "I do not like a stranger having their hands upon me when I am at my most vulnerable."

Bilbo covered his mouth with his hand in dismay. "Oh, I never considered! If you'd prefer not, I shouldn't like to force you-"

"It's all right," Thorin broke in, insisting when Bilbo would have demurred again, "If I return now shirtless I'll never hear the end of it from Dwalin."

That was surely true and Bilbo swallowed, hard, "I am sorry."

"Do not be ridiculous. It is a shirt; you aren't leading me to a thrashing. I hope!" Thorin teased and Bilbo relaxed, the two of them walking along in silence for a short time before Thorin added, with heavy amusement, "I cut a fine figure?"

"Oh, hush!" Bilbo said crossly. "You know what I meant!"

"I think I do." Thorin laid a hand, briefly, on Bilbo's shoulder, strong fingers squeezing lightly. Flustered for no good reason, Bilbo led them on to Mungo's, still feeling the warmth of Thorin's hand as he knocked upon the round door.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 3<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

When he entered the tailor's shop, Bilbo took a moment to wipe his feet carefully on the rug as they stepped inside, following a curt order shouted through the door to, "Come in, then!"

At his heels, Thorin lingered back and Bilbo could not blame him for that. Seeing the tailor's workshop for the first time did tend to be overwhelming. The front foyer was lined with dressmaker's mannequins, each in varying stages of clothed and their blank faces were directed to make it seem they were staring eyelessly at whatever guest had come. Across the top of the walls were shelves, each heaped with bolts of fabric in a dizzying rainbow of colors.

In the workshop proper, Mungo was hunched over his table, tools of his trade surrounding him. A fat graphite stick was behind one of his ears and a measuring tape hung around his neck. He was sketching with another piece of graphite and even across the room Bilbo could see it was party dress. Someone must have an upcoming birthday, one to which he did not seem to be invited. Bilbo pushed that aside as unimportant; he'd need all his wits about him to deal with Mungo.

"Bilbo Baggins, back again so soon are we? I can't imagine it's because of your new waistcoat, you seemed pleased enough with it at the time," Mungo called out in his raspy voice; years of smoking pipeweed did eventually take their toll.

Mungo was short even for a Hobbit, bent over with age and he had large, bushy white eyebrows that tended to bobble up and down as he talked. He was rope-thin, the dried-out look that some of the aged took on that reminded Bilbo of elderly raisins.

He took in Bilbo and Thorin with remarkable aplomb, judging them both with eyes still sharp despite his years and a hint of his notorious temper already at the fore.

"This is a Dwarf," Mungo announced and from his tone one would expect that Bilbo had giftwrapped a rotten apple for him. "I'd heard you had guests, Mister Baggins, but I wasn't expecting to be seeing one of them with my own eyes."

"Mungo," Bilbo stepped forward, already seeing the thunderclouds forming on Thorin's face, "This is a good friend of mine—"

"Thorin Oakenshield, yes, son of Thrain, son of Thror, isn't it?" Mungo interrupted, one bushy eyebrow rising. "Aye, I know who you are. Word travels fast in the Shire, particularly after your trip to the marketplace. I believe they also call you King Under the Mountain, or so says that burly one you brought along with you." So much for Dwalin keeping secrets and surely none had ever said Thorin's titles with such scorn. Bilbo was sincerely concerned he'd soon be seeking a new tailor.

Thorin's jaw worked and Bilbo grabbed his hand, squeezing tightly in a desperate, silent plea for him not to murder Mungo. He would honestly prefer to keep any slayings to the Sacksville-Baggins line.

With their fingers woven together, Bilbo could feel Thorin startle, and then hesitantly squeeze back, keeping Bilbo's hand in his grip as he ground out, low, "Yes, I am. A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure."

Mungo grunted in a way that seemed to imply that the pleasure was all theirs. Hastily, Bilbo said, "We'd like to commission a shirt for him, you see. Nothing too fancy, of course, just a replacement for one that was ruined-"

"I'll thank you not to tell me the entire history of his wardrobe, Mister Baggins, I do have other customers aside from you," Mungo said sharply, beadily eyeing Thorin up and down. "He's a tall one, isn't he. Ferdinand!" he bellowed abruptly and from behind one of curtains scrambled a young Hobbit, hardly even grown into his feet. "Get me a stepladder and hurry up with it, boy!"

Despite his puppish appearance, Ferdinand was quick on his feet, dodging the kick Mungo aimed at his backside with practiced ease. He returned in a flash with the stepladder and helped Mungo to the top step, despite the older Hobbit's grumbling protests.

From around his neck, Mungo pulled the measuring tape and he said, sharply, "Hold still!" As though he expected Thorin to leap away from him in a panic, and indeed, Bilbo thought he might be tempted to do just that. The very first thing the little tailor did was gather up Thorin's hair; simply to move it out of the way, Bilbo was certain, but Thorin stiffened as if stabbed. Touching a Dwarf's hair was such an intimate thing to them, he knew, and for Mungo, who had already been, well, so very much himself this morning to be mucking about with it so impersonally….

"Here, let me," Bilbo moved quickly, standing on his tiptoes as he held the heavy length of it out of the way. There was so much of it that Bilbo barely managed, his hands filled with silky, clinging tendrils. Thorin was perfectly still, motionless as stone as Mungo took his measurements and for once, the little tailor seemed to have nothing derisive to say, taking Bilbo's assistance as though it was to be expected. Perhaps he knew some little bit about Dwarves or perhaps he simply had some self-preservation.

When Mungo had finished, slapping away Ferdinand's hands as he struggled down the ladder on his own, Bilbo carefully smoothed Thorin's hair back down. He combed his fingers lightly through any tangles and Thorin stayed silent beneath his hands, even when Bilbo stilled, his palms laid against the silvery-darkness and the loose curls wound lightly around his fingers.

Only to stagger as Thorin abruptly stepped back into him, nearly sending them both to the floor.

"I don't believe my inseam is important for making a shirt, thank you," Thorin said sharply and Bilbo peered around him to stare aghast at Mungo, who was still kneeling at the Dwarf's feet.

Mungo shook his head, his mouth drawn tight in exasperation, "Oh, is that right? Everyone is an expert, aren't they? Tell me then, how many shirts have you made in your life, young man? Dozens, I suppose?"

"I am not a young-"

"If you were a tailor and not a King, then you would know that the inseam is extremely important," Mungo glowered up at him, "How am I to estimate the length, hmm? Would you prefer I guess at how the fabric should lie, should I put all my efforts into it, only to have to remake it in its entirety because it comes to the knee rather than the mid-thigh? _Would you_?"

Thorin stood, mouth open, glancing helplessly at Bilbo who studiously looked away. Thorin had incurred his wrath; Thorin could reap what he had sown.

"I'll have you know that my time is quite important, to me, if not to you," Mungo said, shaking his measuring tape wrapped fist up at the Dwarf. "I prefer to make clothing once and no more than that, and if you're only planning to waste my skills, then I would say to you, good day!"

From Thorin's thunderous expression, he was quite prepared for a less gracious reply than good day himself and Bilbo finally stepped forward, patting Mungo's shoulder cajolingly. He wasn't about to deal with all this nonsense only for them come out shirtless in the end. "Oh, come now, there is no one in the Shire who doesn't appreciate the fineness of your work. Why, just compare it to what he's wearing now, do you see?"

"I do," Mungo said grumpily. Thorin cast a glance down at his shirt, his frown deepening.

"I'll have you know that this shirt was made by-"

"An obviously inferior designer," Bilbo interrupted. "One without your skill and talent. We both know that no Man could possibly match your expertise and Dwarves?" Bilbo shuddered, shaking his head sadly as though the very thought was too much to bear. "Imagine, though, how he would look in one of your works?"

Mungo's eyes took on a sharp gleam and Bilbo thought he was indeed imagining just such a thing. Much as Bilbo had since Frodo had brought the idea up. It would be worth it, Bilbo reminded himself, well worth Mungo's temper, to see such a view.

"Such an opportunity, as well," Bilbo sighed, "Although I do suppose it's to be expected that you would eventually design something for royalty. I should think that there isn't a soul in the Shire who would be surprised." Nor would there be a soul who hadn't heard about it, and quite soon at that.

"A shirt for royalty," Mungo mused. "Even Dwarven royalty. That would be quite a chance, wouldn't it."

Even Bilbo winced at that, throwing a desperately pleading look at Thorin. Who looked rather like he was chewing off bites of his own tongue. Bilbo took a moment to send thanks up to the heavens that Dwalin hadn't joined them this morning, for surely blood would have already been shed, possibly even limbs.

"Something in blue," Mungo went on, his eyes distant as he circled Thorin. "Something to match those divine eyes of yours, nothing like this shade." He plucked at Thorin's current shirt distastefully, hardly seeming to notice the darkening of his scowl. Whether it was due to his observation about Thorin's eyes or his casual hands upon his person, Bilbo did not dare hazard a guess.

"Blue," Bilbo agreed softly, "He does look quite fine in blue."

To his alarm, a faint, ruddy flush rose in Thorin's cheeks. Perhaps they needed to speed things along before Thorin gave in to his baser urges and beheaded poor Mungo before he could make the shirt.

He'd left his sword at Bag End, but Bilbo suspected he could make do with the pinking shears on the worktable in a pinch.

"Do you think you can manage, Mungo?" Bilbo asked solicitously. "I'd hate to ask too much."

Mungo drew himself up to his full height, two inches below Bilbo and nearly a foot shorter than Thorin, all quivering indignation, "Of course I can manage!" he snarled. "I shall make a shirt that will make even the royalty amongst Elves weep for its beauty!"

"If you can manage that, I will add my own coin to Bilbo's," Thorin said, dryly.

"It's decided, then," Mungo turned to Thorin, eyeing him, "Now, if I may get my measurements?"

Thorin sighed heavily, holding quite still as Mungo knelt before him and if he flinched to the sudden press of a tape measure so close to his nether region, at least he didn't jab a blade in any part of the old tailor. Even when he repeated the measurement against the other thigh.

* * *

><p>There seemed to be some sort of ongoing issue with Dwarves and clothing, Bilbo soon learned as Dwalin and Frodo were making ready for their evening meal with the Gamgees.<p>

"I am not changing my clothes," Dwalin growled, eyeing Bilbo with ferocity. Which did not make much sense to Bilbo and he said as much.

"I did not say that you should," Bilbo said mildly. "I only suggested leaving the armor off; though I might not have bothered since I doubt there is a chance you may actually do it. You may as well go as you are. I hardly think the Gamgees will be expecting you in finery and lace."

Far from easing Dwalin, he only glared more fiercely, arms crossed over his chest. Most of his baleful looks were falling over towards Thorin, who sat by the fireplace in Bilbo's most comfortable chair, a book open in his lap. Paying not a whit of attention to his friend and the heat of Dwalin's ire fell short of its mark.

Or perhaps not because as Thorin turned a page, he remarked, idly, "If you are concerned about your attire, you can borrow something of mine." He looked up at Dwalin through his lashes, a hint of fire in his own eyes, "I am sure I have a _shirt_ that I can loan."

"You are both being ridiculous," Bilbo told them, rolling his eyes. "Arguing over dinner and shirts, and whatever else."

"Aye, I think he's right," Thorin agreed and Dwalin rolled his eyes like a schoolboy vexed with the teacher's pet. "They invited you for dinner, Dwalin, not as dinner. Though if that should change, do remind them you should be skinned first."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Bilbo muttered. Dwalin puffed up like a wet hen at that jibe, sputtering out something that Bilbo was grateful was in his own language as Frodo took that moment to dart in, his small face washed clean and his hair carefully combed, including the wispy fringe on his feet.

Bilbo pretended to study him doubtfully, checking behind his ears and the backs of his hands to make sure he'd thoroughly washed. The sleeves on his shirt were growing a little short at the wrist, a telling sign that Bilbo would be commissioning clothes for another, somewhat smaller, person quite soon.

"Well!" Thorin said, setting his book aside and smiling warmly, "You are done up nicely. Do you see, Dwalin? Frodo changed _his_ shirt."

"I did!" Frodo announced, oblivious to Thorin's smugness to Dwalin's glare. He padded over to Thorin and held his arms out in display. "Do I look all right?"

"More than all right," Thorin assured him, poking the child lightly at his side, until Frodo squirmed and giggled. Then Thorin gave Frodo a stern look, "You will use your manners tonight, I am sure? Do your Uncle and your family's house proud?"

"Yes, sir, your Highness," Frodo said, solemnly and this time it was Dwalin's turn to look smug as Thorin startled.

"I think you can call me by my given name, no matter what Dwalin tells you," Thorin said dryly. "I am not your King, after all."

To Bilbo's surprise, Frodo's face screwed up unhappily at that. "You can be my King if I want you to be," he complained. "Mister Thorin sounds wrong."

"Perhaps, but I think I would rather you did not take to calling me King Thorin, either," Thorin pointed out. "Imagine shouting that through the door as you run about? No, no," Thorin shook his head. "I believe just my name will do."

Frodo considered that, thoughtfully, "Can I call you Uncle? Uncle Bilbo isn't my uncle but he lets me call him that. You can be my other Uncle."

Thorin went very still, his mouth tightening, and Bilbo stepped forward instantly, settling an arm around Frodo's shoulders to draw him away, "Now, Frodo, you mustn't ask things like that, Thorin is our guest and—"

"I…would not object to that," Thorin said, low, and Bilbo could see the tremor in his hands, the way his eyes flicked from the floor, to Frodo, to Bilbo and back again. "But I would not think to claim such a title away from Bilbo."

Of course he would think that. Bilbo reached out and laid his hand over Thorin's. It felt chilled, as though Frodo's innocent question had drained the warmth from him. "I think there is enough of Frodo that I can share a little of him," Bilbo told him, gently.

The hand beneath his own shifted, turning until Thorin could twine their fingers together. His grip was almost painfully tight, squeezing the thinner bones in Bilbo's hands and yet, he held on, wondering at how long Thorin had been waiting for someone to call him Uncle again.

"If that is settled, can we be off to dinner now?" Dwalin grumbled. "If I know one thing about Hobbits, it is that they eat promptly and I do not want to be left licking plates."

Frodo brightened, "Yes, let's be off!" He darted in, throwing his arms in turn around Thorin and Bilbo before scampering up to Dwalin. "Good night, Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Thorin! I'll be good!"

"Aye, you will," Dwalin growled, scooping the boy up onto his shoulder with no regard for neat clothes and combed hair. "And it is Mister Dwalin to you, understand?"

"Yes, Mister Dwalin, sir," Frodo said promptly and the two of them took their leave, the door shuddering closed behind them.

Bilbo remained next to the chair, his hand entwined with Thorin's and hesitantly, he covered their combined hands with his other, rubbing Thorin's chilly fingers between his own. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course," Thorin said, almost absently. Abruptly, he stood, drawing his hand away, "I believe I will step outside for a smoke."

Bilbo watched him go, helplessly, a hard ache in his own chest, and did not have the heart to point out that Thorin had forgotten his pipe.

* * *

><p>The sun was cresting the horizon, the dinner hour trickling away and Thorin had yet to reappear. Bilbo chewed his lip, considering, and finally made a simple dinner for himself. Making something for Thorin later would be no trouble and going to find him seemed to Bilbo a crass invasion of privacy. It had been only been a few short years since his nephews had been lost and Bilbo wondered how much time Thorin had even had to mourn them.<p>

What time did a King have for himself, if any? All the gold in Erebor could not have purchased Thorin what he truly needed; time to grieve, time to learn how to move past their deaths rather than pushing his sorrow aside. Perhaps that was why he and Dwalin were here, for surely if one needed time to simply relax and think, Hobbiton was that place.

Eating by himself at the table, once a pleasure to him, now seemed too quiet and lonely. Without Frodo's eager appetite and sweet manners, nor Dwalin loud crunching, his manners less so than Frodo as squabbling with Thorin, who sat like a benevolent father watching his odd brood with a jaundiced eye. Lacking that, Bilbo had only the scrape of his fork against his plate, a poor substitute for companionship and he found he did not even care to finish his meal.

Bilbo pushed his plate aside with a sigh. He was being ridiculous, of course; Frodo was only gone for one night and the Dwarves had only been here for two. They would be on their way again eventually and it would be back to him and Frodo for suppertime. At least he would have the boy, Bilbo consoled himself, bemused at how quickly he'd grown accustomed to him.

A distraction seemed to be in order and Bilbo set his solitary plate in the wash basin then went to his study. Writing would busy his mind, Bilbo decided, and he put pen to paper, thoughts already awhirl of memories and adventure.

It was some time later that Bilbo heard the door opening and closing again, heavy footsteps moving about Bag End before venturing towards his study. Hastily, Bilbo grabbed at papers, moving them aside as Thorin came in to stand behind him.

"Good evening," Thorin said simply, and he did not seem to notice the way Bilbo glared up at him, pen clenched in his hand, though he did notice that Thorin seemed calmer. He smelled of clean night air and pipe weed of a type Bilbo was unfamiliar with. Rich, with an undercurrent of bitterness and he wondered vaguely where Thorin had been to get a pipe. Hopefully not the marketplace again; Bilbo thought they might only just be recovering from his last outing.

"There and Back Again," Thorin read, curiously, "This is what you've been secreting yourself away to write?"

"Obviously," Bilbo huffed, leaning over the page to hide it from view. "I've only had the one adventure, so this is my tale to tell. And it's not finished, so you can stop looking!"

"I'm sure you tell it well. You—" Thorin's voice trailed away and Bilbo looked up, brow knit in confusion. To find Thorin staring across the room, what could be so…

The map.

Bilbo had quite forgotten about the map. Dwarves in his home made gazing after it longingly a silliness. In all honesty, he hadn't even thought of the map since Dwalin and Thorin had appeared on his front stoop. Now he sat wretchedly as Thorin stared at the evidence of his thievery, reaching out to lift the frame from its shelf.

"Yes, I took it," Bilbo confessed, softly, wringing his hands. "I do know that I had no right. Obviously! Obviously, I had no right and burgling from you again was the last thing I intended. It should be with your scholars, of course. With you. Obviously, it should. You should take it with you when you. Go. When you go, you should-"

"Keep it," Thorin said, low.

"I mean, of course you'll be going eventually and..." he stopped, blinking, "I beg your pardon?"

"I said keep it."

"It's a...a relic, from the legacy of your people," Bilbo stuttered, though that knowledge had not kept him from taking it in the first place. He'd had no right to it, none at all, and yet when he had seen it—

The tent had stunk of blood and battle, and Thorin had been pale as one already dead. Bilbo had stood before him, not knowing if the Dwarf would pass before his very eyes and that was when he had seen it. The bent corner of paper beneath a wretched pile of rent armor, his bloody axe notched and cast aside as well. Bilbo had stolen it without a thought, tucked it into his shirt and even when Thorin had recovered and forgiven him for a much more grievous theft, Bilbo had not returned it.

He'd carried it with him home to Bag End, cleaned the few droplets of blood from the parchment with as much care as was possible, and now Thorin was here before him, telling him to keep this, another relic of his family that Bilbo had stolen from him.

"I...I couldn't possibly, it should be-"

"It's mine to give," With a care, Thorin set it back on the shelf. "Keep it." He turned back to Bilbo and his eyes were a storm, unknown emotion stirring in their depths. "You saved my life many times over. Without you, I would have died having never even seen Erebor again, much less reclaimed it. So if having that simple map eases you, keep it."

"Thorin," Bilbo began and then stopped as Thorin reached for him. Large hands settled on him, one at his shoulder and the other warm at the nape of his neck. Thorin drew him in, resting his forehead upon Bilbo's and Bilbo said nothing, only allowed himself to be held. A Dwarven gesture, this, he knew, one that spoke of deep affection, and he did not hesitate to slip his own hand beneath the heavy length of Thorin's hair, resting it in the warm place at the back of his neck.

Softly, Thorin spoke and his breath was warm and damp, scented with smoke. "We reclaimed Erebor, all of us. And now, my advisors harangue me, for all these past years I have claimed no heir. As though they'd forgotten I had heirs, that they died, sacrificed themselves for me. I reclaimed Erebor for my people and all it cost me was that which I held dearest." His hands tightened, his voice thick with grief and Bilbo raised his other hand to Thorin's face, felt the soft scrape of beard against his palm. "They do not remember, but you do."

"I do," Bilbo said thickly and salt taste of sorrow was heavy on his tongue.

"Ere I left, I named Dain's eldest my heir," Thorin confessed, his voice broken and low. "And my heart felt as though I'd lost them yet again. My grandfather's line will die with me, our gold madness slaked through death."

"Thorin," Bilbo said, his name alone, for what words could offer any soothing. He would not deny any truths, nor offer petty comfort. All he could do was share in Thorin's grief, holding him close as the King wept silent tears for those whom they had lost.

All too soon Thorin drew away from him and Bilbo kept his head averted, allowing Thorin to wipe the dampness from his face without witness. Though his eyes were reddened, sorrow still visible in their depths.

"Some tea, I think," Bilbo decided and Thorin's answering chuckle was hoarse.

"Hobbits seem to find tea to be the answer to anything."

"Well, if it's not an answer in and of itself, at least it helps you think about the question."

"True enough," Thorin agreed. "Lead on and perhaps we'll see if Dwalin has discovered the rest of the cookies yet."

* * *

><p>End Chapter 4<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

It was well past the dinner hour when the front door swung open again, creeping into the time for late-night tea before bed. Not that Bilbo had any need for that this night; he and Thorin had already drank their tea, sitting quietly at the kitchen table with the cups and the packet of cookies Bilbo had squirreled away at the bottom of his lettuce basket where greedy Dwarf eyes would not care to look.

Thorin had eaten little and spoken less, the shadow of his sorrow lingering and in the end, Bilbo had only sat with him, offering what quiet comfort that he had. It was not enough, would never be enough. That much he had learned with Frodo, sitting with the lad at night when nightmares woke him, comforting him during the daylight hours when the heavy burden of his grief was too much for a young boy to bear. Those times came less and less, now, though, Bilbo's presence and time combining to at least ease Frodo's sorrow.

He could offer that much to Thorin as well, Bilbo thought. Tea and company were only the smallest of things and yet, small things could offer some strength.

Now they sat before the fire, both of them with books in their laps. It had given Bilbo a pause when he realized Thorin's book was not one from his own shelf, but one he must have brought with him, the binding finely cared for and the pages lined with words that Bilbo could not read.

And why shouldn't Thorin care for books, Bilbo scolded himself inwardly. He knew better than that; Dwarves were as varied as Hobbits and where Dwalin might be more likely to use a book as kindling, could Bilbo say that many a Bracegirdle wouldn't do the same thing?

Point of fact, Dwalin was the one who had pointed out that Thorin was well-learned in the histories and Bilbo made a mental note to pick out a few of his own books that Thorin might find interesting. Not the ones on Elves, true, or Thorin might show his own propensity towards books as kindling, but Bilbo had a tome or three on Hobbit histories and while they weren't quite as bloody as Dwarven ones were like to be, Thorin might enjoy them.

Bilbo ignored the odd little thrill that went through him at the thought, surreptitiously giving his chest a little rub. Far too much tea this week, he decided, if it was starting to cause indigestion.

The door swinging open interrupted both their reading and Bilbo stood with a stretch, laying his book aside. Frodo would either be yawning, more asleep than not on his feet, or he would be burbling with excitement that would collapse in on itself the moment he was tucked into bed. Either way, the lad was bound to be snoring in no time, so Bilbo had best find out which it was to be this night.

"And did you have a good time?" Bilbo asked as he stepped into the foyer. Only to halt in shock as he saw Dwalin, mouth dropping foolishly open. His first thought was it was best that Thorin hadn't lent Dwalin a shirt after all; otherwise Bilbo would be indebted to him for two.

Dwalin was, for lack of a better word, a disaster on large, booted feet. There was a darkened handprint on the side of his head, the imprint made of jam, Bilbo thought, and another lay on his shoulder in a color that Bilbo suspected was strawberry. He thought he could make out another one curved around his side of his back, this one in peach, as though Dwalin were a fruit salad of childish handprints.

One side of his beard his was raggedly braided, odd tufts sticking out in awkward angles and was the other side _singed_? Since Bilbo had met Dwalin, he'd not known the Dwarf to weave beads into his beard and certainly the addition of a large wooden block was new, threaded on to hang heavily off the end of the new, bedraggled plait.

"What happened?" Bilbo asked, amazing. There was a large, damp patch on his trouser leg; perhaps that was why Dwalin was walking stiffly. Bilbo certainly hoped that was it and not some injury. The dampness didn't appear to be blood, at any rate.

Dwalin's head swiveled towards him, the light cast by the candles bringing the berried handprint into sharp relief. His eyes were ablaze and Bilbo blinked as Dwalin growled at him. No words. Just a growl.

"The baby pee on him," Frodo supplied helpfully, peering out from behind Dwalin's other leg. Bilbo noted with some relief that Frodo's hands, while perhaps not as clean as they had been ere they'd departed, were at least not smeared with any sort of jam.

"Baby?" Bilbo asked, looking from Frodo's small face to Dwalin glowering one and back. "You held the baby?" Hamfast hadn't mentioned that his eldest daughter would be there with her child, though Bilbo supposed he should have known, proud grandda that he was. He tried to imagine it. Only one of Dwalin's fingers would be the size of the infant's arm. His palm would engulf its tiny head.

"You say these things as though you expect me to have a choice," Dwalin snarled. "I'm off to bed. Wake me for tomorrow's supper!"

"And Missus Bell pinched his cheeks," Frodo added. "She said he was a big fellow and he must have a hearty appetite. She made him clean his plate one, two-" Frodo counted on his fingers, holding them up triumphantly. "Four times!"

"Aye, you can always trust a fellow with a taste for good cooking! And he had the patience of a saint, he did, bless him," came from behind him, and Bilbo blinked again as Hamfast came through the door as well, slapping Dwalin on the back. Even more astonishing, Dwalin staggered forward a step from the force of it. "My brood did their best to break him and Mister Dwalin had none of it," Hamfast said proudly, as though Dwalin was his newly adopted son. "Withstood the worst of it, like a willow tree bending in a storm! A good fellow, very good fellow. Now, off and change your trousers, I do b'lieve I owe you a drink for your patience."

For a moment, Bilbo was afraid Dwalin was going to take a severed limb as payment, so fierce were his eyes. Then he frowned and said, grudgingly, "Aye, a drink might be nice, even if it is the swill you lot call ale."

Hamfast chortled aloud and, one might daresay, deviously, "Oh, I can do you better than ale, Mister Dwalin, I can. Get yourself changed, I'll have a pipe outside and wait for you." He gave Bilbo a cheery nod and a bow as he stepped back through the door, "Evening, Mister Bilbo!"

"Good evening," Bilbo offered warily, in return, and made a mental note to be regretfully busy should the Gamgees ever invite him over for dinner.

Frodo chose that moment to prove he did, indeed, have a disobedient streak, clinging to Dwalin's cleaner trouser leg stubbornly, declaring loudly that Mister Dwalin was not to go, he needed Mister Dwalin to tuck him into bed, though Bilbo suspected the problem was more that Hamfast was so obviously and cheerily taken with Frodo's new playmate.

He ignored both Bilbo's scolding and Dwalin's gruff protests, squalling loudly, his red face awash with tears, "No, no! Don't go, don't go!"

"That's enough!" Came loudly from the doorway and the three of them froze beneath Thorin's chilly disapproval. He stood before them, large arms crossed over his chest and every inch the King as he glowered down at a crimson-cheeked Frodo, who scrubbed away tears with his sleeve, his shame obvious in the slump of his shoulders. "I expected you would have better manners than this for your Uncle, than to disgrace him so before others."

Frodo nodded jerkily, shoulders still hitching as he looked up at Bilbo with watery blue eyes, "Sorry, Uncle Bilbo," he hiccoughed. Bilbo melted and would have hugged the child at the moment if Thorin hadn't spoken again.

"Apologize to Mister Dwalin as well," he told Frodo, still terribly stern, "We must treat friends with respect lest we find ourselves with none."

This time Frodo flung himself at Dwalin's trouser leg, whimpering out, "I'm sorry!"

Dwalin seemed to have none of Bilbo's reluctance, patting Frodo on the back, "Ach, there's a lad, it's all right. Off with you and get ready for bed, and I'll tuck you in, aye?"

"Yes, sir," Frodo scrubbed his eyes again and this time it was with weariness, as Bilbo had expected. The boy gave him a quick hug as well before darting past Thorin with a wary glance, one that did not go unnoticed and Bilbo bit his tongue as Thorin's expression crumpled, slightly, his lips tightening as he turned back to the sitting room. The sound of his most comfortable chair scraping against the floor as someone heavier than a Hobbit flung themselves into it was glaringly loud.

Bilbo stood uncertainly, half of him drawn to help Frodo to bed and the other aching to sit with Thorin, already so raw with hurt this evening that he hardly needed a childish tantrum on top of it all. A nudge at his shoulder had him looking up at Dwalin and perhaps his calm demeanor would not have been so blatantly odd if that large wooden block in his beard had not nodded along with his head.

"You go after that one," Dwalin told him, a touch dryly, "I'll take care of the other, aye?"

Bilbo nodded, sighing, "I always seem to get the bad end of a bargain."

"Think so?" Dwalin snorted, tugging at his beard, "Then I'll be sure to tell Hamfast you'll be delighted to join them for dinner next week."

"There's no need to be cruel," Bilbo told him and they parted ways, Dwalin already bellowing for Frodo to get washed for there would be no sleeping with a jammy face.

Bilbo kept his words on that to himself, creeping back into the sitting room to find Thorin reading again, if one could call glaring fiercely at pages something as modest as reading.

"I was wondering," Bilbo asked, carefully, "What book that is you have? Obviously, I don't read Khuzdul—"

"It is a work of poetry about the House of Fëanor," Thorin told him, shortly, turning a page with rather more force than was necessary, as though he expected the page itself might lash out with a bite.

"I don't believe I've heard of that," Bilbo said, even as he wondered with some bemusement, _poetry_? He stepped closer, this time in honest curiosity as he sat on the low footstool, bravely nudging aside Thorin's propped feet.

"As well you shouldn't," Thorin said, still curt, "They were a cursed House, six of seven sons perished in the First Age, along with the head of house. They are the Dispossessed, and spoken of only in hushed whispers amongst my people."

"Oh," Bilbo pursed his lips. That sounded like a cheery tale. "How…interesting. Do you know, I believe I have a few books you might enjoy on my shelves. The tale of my Uncle BullRoarer Took is quite fascinating. In fact…" He trailed away, catching at last the faint twitch of Thorin's lips that finally blossomed into a smile, "Oh, you are playing with me!" Bilbo huffed out.

"A bit," Thorin admitted, nudging Bilbo's hip with his foot. "It is poetry, but not so grim as that."

"But still poetry," Bilbo pointed out and Thorin raised an eyebrow at him

"Do you dislike poetry?"

"I do not, I simply did not realize that _you_ do not. What is it then, if not about a cursed house and beheadings and bloody death."

Thorin propped his elbow on the chair arm and rested his chin in his hand, gazing at Bilbo thoughtfully, "First you mock me for liking poetry and now this? I mentioned no bloody beheadings, what a grim imagination you have, Master Baggins."

Bilbo scowled at him, resting a hand on Thorin's knee, so close to his own elbow, unthinkingly. He squeezed it in mock exasperation, "Oh, come along now! If you'd rather not tell me, you've only to say so."

He could not fathom why Thorin's smile wobbled into startlement, blue eyes widening. "I…no. It is no great secret," he coughed, "It is about Fingolfin, High King of Nolder, and his courtship of the lady Anairë, who would become his wife."

"Courtship," Bilbo repeated, blinking.

"Aye, there were many who spoke against it, and it began a feud between their families that lasted centuries," Thorin told him, "Quite the epic tale and—"

"So what you are saying is, you are reading love poetry," Bilbo said, slowly. He did not add, 'like a young lass in her tweens, mooning over her young lover' though from Thorin's scowl he heard it nonetheless.

"It is an epic tale from the history of my people about war between two households," Thorin said stiffly, holding the book against his chest as if Bilbo had suggested tossing it into the fire.

"Oh, of course, of course," Bilbo patted his knee soothingly. "War. Bloody war, I'm sure."

"It is."

"And courtship," Bilbo added and the knee beneath his hand went tense. "War and courtship. Both interesting to read about in their own ways, one hopefully less bloody than the other-"

"What is your sudden fascination with bloody stories, I'd like to know," Thorin began, only to be interrupted by the quiet patter of little feet. Frodo came darting into the room, dressed in his nightshirt and his face freshly washed.

"Good night, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said, his tantrum seemingly forgotten as he flung his arms around Bilbo's waist. Bilbo hugged him back and pressed a light kiss against his tousled curls.

"Good night, my boy," Bilbo said, softly and before he could even subtly urge the child in that direction, he'd already turned to Thorin, climbing into his lap without a touch of hesitation and hugging him tightly as well.

"Good night, Uncle Thorin," Frodo said brightly and if the kiss he pressed to Thorin's bearded cheek was somewhat sloppy, Thorin offered no protest, eyes closing as he gave the boy a quick, tight hug.

"Good night,_ akhûnith_," Thorin murmured, a touch hoarsely, and Frodo scrambled away without a backwards glance as he trotted back to his bedroom.

If Dwalin had had a hand in Frodo's quick forgiveness to Thorin's stern reprimand, Bilbo decided he'd rather not know, blinking perhaps a bit too quickly as Thorin had not yet opened his eyes.

"Love poetry," Bilbo prompted, quietly, and Thorin's lashes rose, the blue of his eyes deepened in the firelight.

"Yes," Thorin agreed, softly.

They both startled when Dwalin tromped past the doorway, rather more put together than he had been before. Bilbo decided not to tell him about the trace of missed jam on the back of his head.

"I'm off, then," he grumbled, "If Mister Gamgee hasn't gone without me. Think I've earned a drink or three tonight, if you don't mind, your Highness."

"Not at all," Thorin said, irritably, though Bilbo wondered why he was letting Dwalin go if he was so unhappy about it. "Please, take yourself elsewhere for a good while."

Rather to Bilbo's surprise, Dwalin paused, stepping into the parlor. He leaned against the doorway, large arms crossed over his broad chest and Bilbo might have called his tone sly when Dwalin said, "Or I could stay, if you'd rather. Going to read some of your pretties aloud, are you?"

If Thorin had prickled at Bilbo's gentle teasing about the poetry, he positively seethed at Dwalin's goading. The pages of his book were crumpling under his grip and in the interest of preserving literature, Bilbo hastily told Dwalin, "Do you know, Hamfast makes quite the special homebrew. It's legendary here at the Shire."

Dwalin's eye took on a predatory sort of gleam and Bilbo pressed on with a touch of his own slyness, "I think that's what he had in mind when he offered you a drink. He may even be willing to part with two glasses, after what his kin put you through."

"He'd owe me the still if we're to be counting debts," Dwalin snorted, giving his freshly unadorned beard a tug. "Aye, I can see that I'm not wanted here. You two enjoy your readings and I'll go see what Hobbits call a drink."

He sounded as though he expected to be thoroughly unimpressed and Bilbo shook his head, hoping that Hamfast chose to be gentle with him, all things considered. Dwalin had already had quite a night.

The door shut quietly enough behind Dwalin and Bilbo realized he was still sitting by Thorin's feet, his hand resting lightly on the Dwarf's knee, well, close to the thigh proper now and he coughed, tucking his hand back into his own lap. "Not that I shouldn't have liked him to stay, but I have the idea that Dwalin doesn't care for poetry."

"Not as such, no," Thorin said, wryly, and he shifted his feet restlessly, as though Bilbo's hand had been keeping him grounded. Perhaps it had; Thorin's night had been as difficult as Dwalin, albeit in another fashion. Hesitantly, Bilbo replaced his hand, a bit more properly on the knee this time.

"His idea had some merit, though," Bilbo offered, cautiously and when Thorin's brow creased he added, hastily, "I'd like to hear you read a little of that aloud. If you wouldn't mind, that is, if it wouldn't be...against tradition, or improper—"

"I would not mind," Thorin interrupted gently, then softer, almost unheard, "Truth be told, it is rather more towards tradition than against it."

Almost, Bilbo questioned that, curious and confused in equal measure. But then Thorin began to read, the richness of his voice washing over Bilbo, caressing each syllable as he wove a story of a Dwarven prince and his forbidden love, and the war that raged around it.

Bilbo did not resist the urge to close his eyes, allowing his mind to drift along with the tale. Beneath his hand, Thorin's knee was warm, his ankle tucked against Bilbo's hip, and the fire cast its glow around them. Loneliness forgotten, Bilbo listened as Thorin read on, basking in the tale and company alike.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 5<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

In his dream, the strange thumping sound came just as the Dwarven prince knelt before his lady love, her pretty, bearded face wet with tears as she protested that they could not be, that war loomed between their families and their marriage could only lead to bloodshed.

To have a polite knock interrupting their passion was disconcerting, followed by a more persistent one that finally pulled Bilbo from his sleep, blinking into the darkness as he puzzled sleepily his surroundings.

He was in his own bed, tucked into the blankets with no memory of how he'd gotten here. The last he recalled was sitting at the fire while Thorin read to him, his voice a lovely compliment to the sadness of the tale he wove and…well, he must have fallen asleep listening to him. Which meant Thorin simply had to have carried him to bed since Bilbo was not prone to sleepwalking into it on his own, more was the pity.

Bilbo groaned aloud at the very thought of Thorin carrying him to his room much the same he had done with Frodo that first night. Feeling beneath the blanket, Bilbo found he was still quite dressed and thank the heavens for that. Not that he'd expected Thorin to tuck him into his nightshirt but he'd rather the comparison to Frodo stay at the minimum. _He_ wasn't in need of an Uncle, after all.

A loud knock sounded again, this time edged with impatience, and Bilbo scrambled from his bed, abruptly realizing that was what had woken him to begin with. He snatched up his dressing robe and pulled it on overtop his clothes, the better to hide their rumpled state, before hurrying out to answer the door.

It wasn't a complete surprise to open the door and find Hamfast placidly looking back at him, his hat in his hands. His round face was creased with concern, a faint sheen of sweat at the brow and Bilbo wondered, still a bit fuzzy with sleep, what his gardener could have been doing at this hour of the night to exert himself.

"Terribly sorry to be waking you, Mister Bilbo, sir," Hamfast said, twisting his hat in his hands. "But I'm afraid I could use a bit of help."

"Of course, you—" Bilbo covered a yawn with his hand, shaking his head a bit to wake himself. "Whatever you need, I'm sure I can lend a hand."

Whatever Hamfast had been about to ask of him was interrupted by a loud voice, singing with no interest in pitch or rhythm, but with great volume and enthusiasm nonetheless, "Oh, I like to go bathing with bowlegged ladies and swim between their legs…"

With no little trepidation, Bilbo leaned to look around an increasingly abashed Hamfast, to find at the base of the hill, right next to his mailbox, was a wheelbarrow containing one Dwarf. A particularly large and drunken Dwarf, whose song had drifted off into an odd sort of snuffling laughter, one that Bilbo would argue was a marked improvement.

"Oh, gracious," Bilbo said, blankly. "I see. Well, that is a problem, isn't it."

Hamfast nodded, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they gravely assessed the situation. "Couldn't carry him home, he's too heavy. And I shouldn't have liked to make him walk," Hamfast explained. "I was afraid the 'barrow might be a bit small for a great hulking fellow like him, but he fit well enough."

"Yes, I can see that," Bilbo agreed, eyeing the wheelbarrow. Aside from his boots dragging on the ground, Dwalin had fit well enough. His arms dangled off to the side, knuckles trailing into the gravel and Bilbo thought his arms were long enough he nearly could have pushed the wheelbarrow himself.

Imagining Hamfast struggling to push it up to the top of the hill was enough of a strain on his mind, though, and Bilbo followed Hamfast's lead down the steps, both of them pausing at the gate in his little fence.

"Has a taste for a good homebrew, though," Hamfast informed him cheerily. "A good fellow, he is, just a bit in his cups, if you catch my meaning."

"I could catch your meaning in both hands," Bilbo pointed out dryly. "I've proof right before me."

"Ah, yes, we do, don't we," Hamfast frowned. Neither of them moved. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Mister Bilbo, but I'm thinking that both of us put together couldn't lift him and the 'barrow is no good on the stairs else I'd have taken him up already.

"Turnips," Dwalin muttered, shifting drowsily and the wheelbarrow gave an ominous creak. "Turnips, it is, Hobbitses putting those veg'tibles in everythin'."

"Shhht! That's a secret, that is!" Hamfast hissed, looking around frantically as though expecting other Hobbits to tumble eagerly from the shadows, listening with keen ears to catch on their every word. "Not a soul, remember, or else every gossip from here to the South Farthing will be stealing my receipt!"

"Sssssecret," Dwalin slurred out agreeably, shifting again and the next sound that left him was a loud, slobbery snore.

Sleeping rather than speaking or, heavens forbid, singing was a marked improvement, though it didn't precisely help them. With a sigh, Hamfast crammed his hat back on his head, eyebrows drawn together in deep consideration. Bilbo was much the same, trying, and failing spectacularly, to come up with a plan of action. He'd helped out a fellow Hobbit here and there in the same situation, minus the wheelbarrow, but Dwalin must weight twice that of the hardiest Hobbit there was and that was without his armor. His boots alone would probably top Frodo on a scale.

"I'm not sure what to do with him if we aren't able to get him up the steps," Bilbo said doubtfully.

Hamfast scratched the back of his head, considering, "I'd leave the wheelbarrow, but I'll have need of it in the morning."

Morning that was fast approaching, Bilbo noted, and Hamfast needed his rest as well. He had a family to feed and Bilbo wasn't the only one he gardened for. "No, no, of course you mustn't leave it. And anyway, I can't leave him to sleep in the garden. Imagine what he could do to my tomatoes in one night?"

Hamfast shuddered next to him, "Doesn't bear thinking about Mister Bilbo, best put that right out of your head."

"I would hate to have your tomatoes in peril," Came dryly from above their heads. "I can carry him."

Both of them looked up to see Thorin at the top of the stairs, still quite dressed even down to his boots, and Bilbo wondered with no little exasperation why he hadn't answered the door to begin with. There were manners and then there was common sense, wasn't there? Or perhaps Thorin thought that Bilbo took visitors often in the wee hours, considering that was when he and Dwalin had chosen to arrive.

"Good evening, sir!" Hamfast called softly, sweeping his hat off again, "Apologies, a'course, for the state of him. I did try to warn him about the moonshine."

Thorin raised a hand to forestall any further regrets. "No need for apologies. Dwalin takes to warnings as well as he does advice."

As though summoned awake by the mention of his name, Dwalin stirred, raising his voice in song again, "By Durin's beard, another two glasses, methinks the melons just grew on them lasses. Their beards are long and their bellies are wide, my lap is empty, come have a ride!"

His caterwauling hit an octave that had both Hobbits wincing, and Thorin came down the steps quickly, cuffing Dwalin at the head, "Hush, you fool, you'll wake the living and dead alike with your voice."

"I'd like to meet the dead who couldn't sleep through a bit of song," Dwalin slurred.

"In your state, you'd have to greet their boots," Thorin said sharply, "Wake them another time."

"An' anyway, should have brought you two along with us," Dwalin muttered, raising his fist in solidarity to Hamfast, who returned the gesture with a furtive look at Thorin. "Never mind reading your pretties, little brother here swears a drink or two would straighten out your fool heads."

"You—" Thorin began, only to be interrupted by a muttered plea to the heavens from Hamfast of all people.

To Bilbo's confusion, Hamfast wrung his hat in his hands as he ducked his head in a sort of bow, "Oh, I am sorry, your Highness. Never meant to cause any trouble, so don't be killing him for anythin' he might be saying when he's bathed in drink!"

Even in the lantern-light, Thorin's eyes widened then quickly narrowed as he gritted out, "And what stories has Dwalin been carrying now?"

"Beggin' your pardon, but I'll not be spreading any tales told in confidence," Hamfast told him stoutly, "Not even to royalty."

"I am not _your_ royalty."

"All the same."

Both Hobbits leapt back in surprise when Dwalin reached out, quick as a blink, and snagged ahold of Thorin's belt, dragging the other Dwarf over. Thorin's startled curse was nearly as loud as Dwalin's singing and truth be told, Bilbo was surprised he could reach that high an octave.

Hamfast and Bilbo only watched, bemused, as Thorin toppled into the wheelbarrow atop Dwalin, the wood groaning a protest at the weight of an additional Dwarf and Bilbo swore he heard Dwalin mutter something about a pretty lass, possibly around a mouthful of Thorin's hair.

"Let me go, you drunken idiot," Thorin hissed and his sudden yelp hit new levels of volume. "You are going to be sorely disappointed with what you find if you manage to get your hand in my trousers."

"They don't hold their drink well, do they," Hamfast said speculatively, taking a step closer to peer curiously at the tangled Dwarves in his wheelbarrow. "Might just have to leave that after all, do you think?"

"Don't you dare leave!" Thorin snarled, a rather desperate note to it.

"No, no, a'course not," Hamfast assured him, though neither he nor Bilbo took a step closer the flailing limbs and hair. "We could p'rhaps get a bucket of cold water. I'd usually give 'm a cuff about the head, but for that one, he might think we're just flirts."

The sudden crack of knuckles against something vulnerable made Bilbo wince and Dwalin yelp, though it did not appear to get Thorin anywhere closer to freedom. He was starting to ponder the merits of that bucket of cold water when another voice called out, warily, "Is everything all right, here?"

Oh, and wasn't that lovely. Tobias Bracegirdle was walking cautiously up the path, lantern in one hand and staff in the other. Bilbo could only imagine what was running through his mind at the sight before him, a tangle of some quantity of Dwarves in a wheelbarrow while Bilbo and Hamfast looked on. Someone must have put out a call for the night watch to look in on some sort of trouble going on at Bag End and here it was for all to see. Probably a few more of his neighbors were, too; Bilbo could see a few candlelit windows along the road.

Of course, this would be happening before Bag End. Of course it was. Tomorrow would be a fine, fine day for the gossips of Hobbiton and that was the truth.

"Toby!" Hamfast said heartily, and he gave the wheelbarrow a wide berth to step up to the lad, giving him a bracing slap on the back. "And how are you this evening, lad? Almost done with your watch, aren't you now, and ready to get back to that lovely lass of yours?" His broad wink made Tobias blush brightly even in the lantern light and he nodded uncertainly.

"Yes, nearly done, I am," Toby agreed, tipping his head to look around Hamfast. Thorin had managed to get his feet back on the ground at least; the rest of him was still well and truly caught up by Dwalin, whom Bilbo was sure had grown at least two extra limbs in his alcohol-soaked state. "Just had a few concerns about a bit of noise up this way."

His eyes slid over to Bilbo, who gave him a weak little wave. Up this way, meaning over by the Baggins's place. That was where trouble came to roost.

"Oh, aye, aye," Hamfast agreed solemnly. "And sorry we are about the noise. Folks'll forgive us, I do hope, t'was a good friend of Mister Baggins's and I's birthday, y'see?"

"Birthday?" Toby perked up, as was to be expected. There was no Hobbit alive who didn't enjoy a birthday, particularly when it wasn't their own.

"Aye, his birthday, and he'll be missing a party this year, so far from kith and kin, they are," Hamfast shook his head at the tragedy. "So Mister Bilbo and I offered what celebration we could, didn't we? Good friends should help each other out, I say! Ah, but it's getting late, and I'm keeping you from that pretty girl of yours gabbling on."

"Sad to miss his birthday party," Toby agreed, "I'm sure folks will forgive the noise, knowing that."

"It would be a kindness of them," Hamfast agreed and Bilbo swore he would never have believed he'd see such a calculating gleam in his gardener's eye. "A shame that we weren't able to offer up presents at a party though. Take a coin for yourself, at least, won't you lad?" Hamfast pressed one into Toby's hand, ignoring his weak protests, "I mean, if we could have had a proper party, we'd be giving presents to all and sundry, but at least we'll be able to say we gave away one!"

"But, I shouldn't-" Toby protested feebly, already walking back down the path, Hamfast guiding him with a firm hand.

"Off you are, now!" Hamfast said cheerily, "Tell that lass of yours a good evening for us!" He waved Toby on his way before stepping easily back up to Bilbo, "There, that's done, then."

"I don't think I've ever seen such a glorious bit of fibbery in my life," Bilbo said with honest admiration and Hamfast chuckled, softly.

"You can't be having all the adventures, now can you, Mister Bilbo?"

"If you're done calling off the hounds, perhaps one of you could give me a hand?" Thorin hissed at them. Dwalin seemed intent on keeping at least one part of Thorin and currently, he was trying for his hair and the front of his shirt alike.

At Thorin's words, though, Dwalin stilled, his head lifting as he squinted in the dimness.

"...Thorin?"

"Aye. And despite my youthful dreams and wishes, I never sprouted breasts, so you can stop searching for them, if you please."

"You aren't a lass a'tall!" Dwalin told him, with the air of one mortally wounded. He let go of him and Thorin fell back on the ground, rubbing his head ruefully where Dwalin had been gripping his hair.

"No, I am not," Thorin sighed. "Very sorry for misleading you."

"Still think I shouldn't be offering my apologies?" Hamfast offered Thorin his hand, grunting aloud as he helped the Dwarf to his feet. "Hope keeping the lot of us out of the clink for the night helped pay a little of that debt. A'course, Toby's not the only night watchman, so we might want to get him inside."

"Yes, excellent idea," Bilbo said, softly, glancing around anxiously. No other lanterns seemed to be approaching but there was no telling what other cranky neighbor would be sending off complaints.

"Agreed," Thorin said curtly, and to the amazement of both Hobbits, he took off his belt and strapped both of Dwalin's hands together with it, despite the other Dwarf's muddled protests.

"Is that entirely necessary?" Bilbo asked, aghast. As one, Thorin and Hamfast answered him.

"Yes!"

"B'lieve it may be, Mister Baggins."

Hamfast stepped back as Thorin grabbed Dwalin up and slung him over a broad shoulder, carrying him up the steps with no small effort as two Hobbits only watched. "Might want to get some water in him before he sleeps," Hamfast called softly, "Help settle his belly!" The softer, aside to Bilbo, "Now, that's quite a sight, isn't it."

It took Bilbo a moment to catch his meaning and by then all he could do was gape, "Hamfast, you are a continual source of amazement to me this evening," Bilbo hissed, blushing, though he didn't deny it. Seeing Dwalin draped over Thorin's shoulder, hands bound and dangling, the muscles in Thorin's arms and back flexing visibly even through his shirt as he bore that weight…well, it was quite a sight. Bilbo just wasn't certain what to make of it.

Hamfast only shrugged, unconcernedly. "Might have had a glass or two of homebrew myself," he said, tapping the side of his nose with a wink, "And I'd best be off before the night watch tries to give the wife something else to fret over. Mind, make sure he drinks that water. Good fellows, both of them. Tell Mister Dwalin he's welcome to stop by again. After supper, if he'd like to avoid the little 'uns."

"I will," Bilbo agreed. If Dwalin survived the next morning, that was. "Best get home for a little sleep yourself, Hamfast."

"Right you are," he began only to be cut off by a loud crash and cursing from just inside the door. "And I do apologize again, Mister Bilbo, for the troubles."

"It's all right," Bilbo assured him hastily, darting up the stairs. Quite all right, not that Bilbo would have been able to explain it to Hamfast. Gossips would have their tongues wagging about him again before morning to be sure, that scandalous Bilbo Baggins at the top of the hill was hip-deep in troubles again. Troubles and Dwarves, and Bilbo didn't mind one bit of it.

To him, it wasn't a trouble at all.

Though that was an opinion he might have to revise as he halted in surprise at his doorway to find Dwalin sprawled on the floor, groaning, and Thorin bending over him with obvious wariness.

"Did you drop him on the floor?" Bilbo asked, disbelievingly. With his hands bound, Dwalin wouldn't have even been able to catch himself. Though from the look of it, his floor had perhaps taken more damage than Dwalin; his head was probably as hard as the tiles.

"It was either that or let him keep biting me," Thorin said shortly, though he was surprisingly gentle as he checked Dwalin over.

But his head had been…Bilbo's eyes drifted downward as he registered just where the most likely place was that Dwalin had bitten. "Oh, dear."

Thorin was pushing up one of Dwalin's eyelids and peering into it when he woke with a snort and a song, "My lovely lass's beard, it 'tis a sight to please. Starts betwix her legs and hangs down to her knees!"

"Hush yourself," Bilbo hissed at him, though he still kept his distance; the memory of Thorin tipped head over boots atop Dwalin was not one that would fade quickly. "If you wake Frodo and he takes to singing that, you will be less all your beards! Wherever you grow them!"

"Frodo?" That had him sitting up, right quickly, pushing Thorin roughly aside, "Where is the lad, he…" Dwalin hiccoughed roughly, "He shouldn't be up! Shouldn't be here, just a young lad, he is."

"Frodo is in bed, which is where you should be," Thorin told him, pulling Dwalin to his feet with a grunt of effort. "Come along."

Between the two of them, they managed to shuffle down the hallway to the guest bedrooms, Bilbo trailing behind them. He clutched his own sleeves as they passed Frodo's room, cringing inwardly at the thought of Dwalin bursting into any song about beards or breasts or whatever horrors were lurking tonight in his drink-sodden mind. In an unlikely burst of luck, though, he kept silent, or at least quiet enough that the lad didn't wake.

In the guest room, Bilbo found himself an impromptu valet, assisting Thorin as much as Dwalin in pulling off the tall Dwarf's boots. The many buckles and clasps seemed terribly overdone in Bilbo's opinion, particularly for a fellow who liked a drink as much as Dwalin did, but then, Thorin's boots were much the same and Bilbo was not precisely a good judge of footwear.

Overdone or not, they were soon cast to lie upon the floor by the bed and Dwalin sagged back on the mattress, one leg still dangling off the side. The rest of his clothes seemed destined to remain as they were, surely uncomfortable to sleep in but Thorin's sour expression told Bilbo that perhaps suggesting they take them off would not be in his best interest.

Dwalin solved the problem of his leg on his own, rolling over and burying his head into the pillows.

"Oh, don't sleep yet," Bilbo said, worriedly, "You should drink just a bit of water first, Dwalin. Hamfast said it would help."

"Aye, he'd know," Dwalin replied, muffled into the pillow. "Knows his drink, that one does."

"I will get it," Thorin turned towards the door, hesitating with his hand on the handle, as he muttered to Bilbo, "Do not go near the bed."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Bilbo assured him, and true to his word, he stayed well back. The very idea of being caught up by an amorous Dwalin was enough of a threat to keep him well away, thank you very much.

Even half a dozen steps away, he still tensed when Dwalin abruptly sat up, ready to flee if it seemed necessary. The Dwarf only took a moment to haul his shirt over his head, struggling mightily as it caught on his arms in a tangle of cloth and though Bilbo wavered in the face of his struggles, he resisted the urge to help. If Thorin had to fight his way free of those hands, Bilbo doubted he'd get loose with anything less than a club.

Finally, Dwalin managed to loose himself, freed from shirt and armor alike and his mail made a jangling racket as he tossed it to the floor. By some small miracle that smiled down on those too sodden for sense, Frodo did not appear curiously in the doorway to take in the sight of his drunken playmate and Dwalin all but collapsed back to the bed, mumbling, "Kind of Hamfast to help me back." And before Bilbo could agree, he added in a sleepy rumble, "Though I think he pinched my arse on the way back over here."

Oh, for heaven's sake. "Hamfast is happily married, Dwalin!" Bilbo said, amused and scandalized in equal parts.

"Aye, I know, and I _know_ she pinched my arse. By Mahal, that woman can drink, too! Give any Dwarf a run for his coin!"

"Frodo said she pinched your cheeks." Bilbo studiously did not ask about sweet, kind Bell Gamgee drinking alongside her husband and Dwalin. Some things were better left unknown.

"He told no lies," Dwalin told him happily, "She pinched both sets, she did."

Bilbo paused, closing his eyes tightly. Yes, many things were better left unknown and that would have been one of them. "I am completely sure that I don't need to be hearing any of this."

"Good people," Dwalin mumbled, "Good food, good drink. Handsy, though. Handsy."

"You are filling me with terrible thoughts about my neighbors."

"Oh, aye?" One bleary eye slit open, already rimmed a bloodshot red. "There's another I could fill you with terrible thoughts about, but I think I like my blood where it is."

"You can't have met that many Hobbits that would pinch your bum," Bilbo said, exasperated.

"I've a fine bum, thank you for noticing. But s'not mine that would be in danger, I think."

"Is there a reason I've returned to find the two of you discussing bums?" Came from the doorway and Bilbo nearly wrenched his neck looking at Thorin standing there with a mug of water and both eyebrows raised. Bilbo blushed and looked away, partly because hearing that voice say the word bum made him want to stammer and giggle like a tween.

"Noooooooo," Dwalin did the giggling for him and the sound of it would haunt Bilbo to the end of his days. "But we might discuss yours, if you've a mind to."

Thorin's mouth twisted into a smirk and he shook his head, "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"Jus' give us a show, then," Dwalin slurred, batting his eyes, and Bilbo honestly wished in that moment that he had a single strand of magical power, that he might vanish through the floor. Simply disappearing would not be enough, by far. "Tell you what, lean over and pick up my shirt, would you? Don' want it to get wrinkled, do I."

"I think a few wrinkles might be an improvement," Thorin nudged it with his toe and that he did not lean over made Dwalin snort unhappily, rolling over into the pillows.

"Fine. Dinna want to look at your arse, anyway," he muttered sullenly, "Got two hobbits to grope mine and you've not gotten even one."

"Oh, please, please, please," Bilbo muttered, burying his face in his hands. Please, to whatever deities looked down upon drunken Dwarves, let Dwalin pass out and spare them all this.

Peeking out through his fingers, he found Thorin only looked amused. He sat down on the bed next to Dwalin and patted his shoulder gently as he silently urged the Dwarf to drink his water, which he did in great, messy gulps, rivulets trailing down his beard and dampening the counterpane.

"Do you know, the very best part of this?" Thorin said tenderly, rescuing the mug as it fell from Dwalin's increasingly lax hand. "Is that you are going to remember this tomorrow and I will get to see your face when you do."

"Mmhmmm," Dwalin murmured, already dozing.

"I've half a mind to crawl into the bed with him," Thorin added, and when Bilbo gasped aloud, Thorin shook his head, chiding. "Such terrible thoughts you have. I'll not be pinching anything of his, bum or otherwise." His mouth tipped up mischievously, "But it would be amusing to see his face when he found me here."

"You are an awful person," Bilbo said wonderingly. "How did I never realize how awful you are. And it would be amusing, I'm sure, but you'd best be careful or you might wake in the night to find him pinching anything he can find."

"There is that," Thorin agreed. "I believe I'll sleep on the floor, then. Dwarves are a hearty bunch but I shall keep an eye on him tonight, in case his stomach disagrees."

"Awful and still, a good friend," Bilbo smiled. "But there's no need for that, I've a spare mattress, I'll fetch it for you."

It was not an excellent mattress, only used infrequently when Bilbo had an overabundance of house guests, often for the very same reasons Thorin needed it. Bilbo hauled it from the cupboard and dragged it down to the guestroom as quietly as he could, for he was sure that Dwalin would not be amused to wake in the morning and discover Frodo had found him in such a state.

It was one thing to tease but Bilbo was not about to break the Dwarf's heart.

Awkwardly, he pulled it through the guestroom door, staggering at the weight before he looked up and froze. Thorin had already pulled off his shirt and boots and was standing before the fire in nothing but his trousers. His skin seemed gilded, very much like the gold he had once coveted so terribly, his chest well-muscled despite his age, lightly furred and the hair dwindled as it ran lower, thinning to a dark line beneath his navel that trailed past his waistband.

He had an arm braced against the mantel and there too Bilbo could see the bulge of muscle, thick in his bicep and around it was a silver circlet. The etchings in it matched the ones tipping his braids, the muscles flexing around the unyielding metal and Bilbo had to swallow at the sudden dryness in his throat.

Everything about Thorin was hard strength and smooth skin, broken only by the whiteness of a scar here and there. One at his ribs, another cutting low near his belly and surely that one had nearly gutted him. Erebor, Bilbo thought suddenly, that was a wound he'd gained at Erebor. He remembered the thick pad of stained bandages wrapped tight around Thorin's middle, the crimson wetness bleeding through. Such a wound might have killed a lesser Dwarf and Bilbo swallowed dryly at the thought.

It gave Bilbo the urge to touch that terrible scar, assure himself that Thorin was whole beneath it, wounded but unbroken, and his fingers itched to stroke the damaged, fire-warmed skin.

And then Thorin moved and the spell was broken. Flustered, Bilbo grabbed up the mattress again, trying to pull it into the room and he nearly squealed when two strong hands caught alongside his, helping him. Thorin was bare-chested right next to him, close enough that Bilbo could see the dark fall of his hair against his shoulders and Bilbo wondered, nearly dazed, how that hair would look spread over a pillowcase or his best sheets or even the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Careful," Thorin said, low, "Bring it over here, not next to the bed. I'd rather not wake up to find him vomiting on my head."

That woke Bilbo from his stupor. "Of course," he muttered, aghast at his own thoughts. He'd been staring at Thorin as though he were on display like one of the hussies at the pubs in Bree, when all he'd been thinking of was his friend. Ridiculous thoughts, he scolded himself. It was all well and good to tease, but surely Thorin would be dismayed if he'd know the direction Bilbo's mind had been carting him off to. All this talk of bums and pinching must have perverted his mind for the night.

Between the two of them, they managed the mattress easily enough and Thorin gathered up a blanket and a pillow from Dwalin's bed, managing to steal one that had yet to be drooled upon. He settled on the mattress while Bilbo watched, wistfully taking in another long look. Thorin was leaning back on his elbows, the blanket barely to his waist and, my, perverted thoughts or no, it was a lovely sight.

"Good night," Thorin said, warmly, and the very sound of that rich, deep voice caressing the words sent a shiver up Bilbo's spine.

"Good night," he offered, weakly, and then quickly scurried off to his own bed. Sleep, he decided, sleep would help, and if his dreams were turbulent, his rest broken by untoward thoughts, at least Bilbo could console himself that he was the only one who knew it.

* * *

><p>end chapter six<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

It was no secret amongst the inhabitants of Middle Earth that Hobbits enjoyed their meals. Where one breakfast might do for some, as Bilbo had discovered on his travels, Hobbits preferred two and elevensies were a more common practice than not for the folk of the Shire.

Hobbits enjoyed more meals certainly, but they weren't necessarily large meals, or not as large as some might prefer. Dwarves, Bilbo had noted, though they ate a mere three times a day those meals were easily twice the size a Hobbit would enjoy and he'd grown somewhat accustomed to such things while with the Company.

With that in mind, alongside Frodo's unbearably early and equally cheerful awakening, Bilbo decided this morning would be an excellent chance to put his cooking skills to good use and have a lovely fry-up for them all and if Frodo's gleeful, and loud, cheer over the suggestion drew a loud groan from one of his guest bedrooms, well.

That was what it was and _someone_ was far enough past the age of foolishness that he deserved whatever morning after pains he got, wasn't he.

It was with a certain amount of relish that Bilbo filled every fry pan in the house with some tasty bit. Sausages, eggs, and potatoes sizzled away, filling the very air of Bag End with their deliciously greasy aroma. Frodo carefully set the table, setting fork, knife and napkin at each place setting, though Bilbo told him to forgo the teacups for now.

That would come later, Bilbo decided, and had Thorin or Dwalin seen his smirk, he was sure that even mighty Dwarves would feel a chill in their spine.

"Frodo, why don't you let Thorin and Dwalin know that breakfast is ready," Bilbo told him merrily, "Knock on the door, lad, don't go barging in like you do with me."

"Yes, Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo dashed down the hallway posthaste and even Bilbo winced at his volume when he pounded his small fist on the door and hollered, "Mister Dwalin! Uncle Bilbo made breakfast and there are sausages and things! No vegetables this time, I promise!"

An echo of loud groans was the only sound and Frodo darted back into the dining room with a bright smile. "I did it, Uncle Bilbo!"

"There's a good lad," Bilbo ruffled his hair and made up a breakfast plate for Frodo. The child had only just bitten into a sausage, a rill of juice dripping down his chin, when Thorin came in. Looking not a bit tired, his hair already properly braided and his clothes fresh and unrumpled. Not that Bilbo was looking, of course, and he quickly busied himself preparing another plate.

"Napkin," Thorin chided, automatically, and as Frodo put it to hasty use, he wrapped an arm around Frodo from behind and gave him a rough hug, rubbing his beard against Frodo's bare cheek until the boy giggled and squirmed.

"You're as bad as he is," Bilbo said, exasperated. "You mustn't play at the table, either of you. Sit down and have some breakfast." Obediently, Thorin sat, and accepted the plate Bilbo thrust at him with a smile. "And how is Dwalin this morning? Feeling a bit poorly, is he?"

"I believe I'll allow him to answer that question himself," Thorin said blandly, without so much as a hint of a smile as he took up his own fork. At least two of his household's current inhabitants were going to enjoy his efforts, Bilbo saw with no small pleasure. There was a certain joy to feeding up ones that you cared for and it satisfied some hitherto unknown need within Bilbo to see the enthusiasm with which Thorin and Frodo availed themselves of breakfast; Thorin as mannerly as always and Frodo in an earnest attempt to emulate those manners.

In fact…Bilbo watched with amusement as Frodo literally mimicked Thorin, from which food he chose to eat to patting his mouth with a napkin every few bites. The biscuits were nearly done and yet, Bilbo still watched them out of the corner of his eye as Thorin abruptly put his fork in his other hand and ate just as neatly, his own blue eyes flicking suspiciously at Frodo. Who imitated him with less than pristine results, his own forkful of potatoes landing in his lap rather than his mouth.

Laughter from the two adults was smothered beneath napkin and pot holder alike as Frodo sheepishly cleaned off his trousers, putting his fork back in the proper hand.

"You'll need a bit more practice at that," Thorin told him, twirling his own fork as neatly between his fingers as he might have done with a dagger.

It was then that he heard it; the heavy plod of boots through his hallway, their soles dragging against the floor as though they were too heavy to be lifted, their ponderous echo reaching over the sizzle of the sausages. A low, growling moan rose, like some poor beast raising its voice to the full moon in the late hours, and everyone at the table stilled, listening.

Again, a loud, raspy groan came and this time it was followed by a staggering body, a wild-haired creature in the form of a Dwarf lurching into his kitchen to collapse in the closest chair. Frodo stared, eyes round and fork forgotten, as Dwalin dropped his head heavily on the table and set every plate and piece of silverware bouncing.

Thorin only grumbled quietly, catching his cup before it tipped over but Frodo bit his lip, asking timidly, "Are you all right, Mister Dwalin? Did I wake you up too early? I do that sometimes, Missus Lobelia told me—"

"You did not," Bilbo said firmly, nipping that line of thought in the bud. He'd rather Frodo never give Lobelia another thought at all. He plated up another healthy serving of breakfast and plunked it nearly atop Dwalin's fallen head. "Here we are then, I'm quite sure you're hungry."

This time the moan sounded a bit closer to a whimper and Bilbo relented, his soft heart overriding his mischief. "Perhaps a bit of tea, instead?"

"Tea," Dwalin rasped, his head lolling to the side so that one desperate, bleary eye met Bilbo's. "Aye, tea would…" he swallowed and even that sounded like sandpaper over a splintery floorboard, "Tea would be a kindness."

"My father had a recipe for just such an occasion," Bilbo decided, and with a fraction of sympathy, he took back the plate and instead gathered up the ingredients for his father's remedy.

"A shame that you're under the weather," Thorin said, smoothly. The crisp biscuits were still steaming when he plucked one up and slathered it with butter, freshly delivered that morning. "Bilbo is an excellent cook. Why, the sausages alone—"

Dwalin decided to vary his collection of pain-filled moans by adding a snarl to his repertoire, "Shut your mouth or I'll be telling you where you can stick your sausages!"

"Dwalin!" Bilbo scolded, pouring hot water over the tea leaves in the pot, then again over the aromatics he'd set in a separate cup. He let it steep, struggling not to wrinkle his nose at the grassy herb scent. "I know you're feeling poorly, but there is a child at the table!"

"re y' sck?" Frodo asked anxiously around a mouthful of the biscuit Thorin had just given him. He did not even wait for a chiding, swallowing quickly and patting his mouth with a napkin as he repeated, "Are you sick?"

"He has the after-birthday gripes," Bilbo told him smoothly and that cleared the worry from Frodo's small face.

"Oh! That's too bad. Cousin Druggin had that last year and Uncle Bilbo helped him," Frodo said, with all the knowledgeable confidence of a child who'd seen this very thing before. "He'll make you feel better, Mister Dwalin!"

"If he wants me to feel better, he'd drive that cooking fork into my heart," Dwalin grunted. "Then he'd pluck it free and take it with my blood still dripping to the Gamgee's and avenge my honor."

"Gruesome talk for the breakfast table," Thorin said, shaking his head as he patted Frodo's curly hair. "From your nattering last night, I would have thought you'd rather have your discussion about sausages with them."

"Thorin," Dwalin growled, "I swear on Durin's name—"

"Or perhaps you'd rather take a moment to watch as I tidy your room. I seem to recall you left a shirt on the floor last night," Thorin said easily, and the wicked curve of his smile sent something warm to nestle in Bilbo's stomach. "I suppose I could _bend over_ and pick it up for you—"

"All right, enough saucy talk this morning," Bilbo broke in, unaccountably flustered. Surely Thorin wasn't flirting with Dwalin, right here at his table, surely he was simply teasing. Last night Dwalin had been deep in his cups…though he'd seemed quite happy enough in his contemplation of Thorin's backside and not at all perturbed by his perception that the Gamgees had given him a bit of a grope, either one of them. Bilbo sent up a fervent prayer that had been nothing more than drunken imagination.

Still, that gave him an idea of where Dwalin's tastes lay. As to Thorin, well. Bilbo poured the steaming remedy tea through the strainer, taking in the greenish tint with approval, before pouring a cup of plain tea for himself and Thorin.

Thorin. He had made the comment about climbing into bed with Dwalin, hadn't he? The two of them were extremely close and Bilbo wondered with a sudden jolt if they were already a pair. Perhaps they'd only chosen not to share a room out of propriety or for fear of what Bilbo would think of them.

Oh, that wouldn't do at all and Bilbo rubbed his chest absently where it ached strangely. Too much sampling while he cooked, he supposed, giving him a spot of indigestion.

Speaking of upset tummies, when the edge of steam stopped rising from the cup, Bilbo took it to Frodo, handing it to the boy with a silent nudge. Clever lad that he was, he nodded quickly and carried it with great importance to Dwalin.

"Mister Dwalin?" Frodo peered at the slumped Dwarf solemnly. "Uncle Bilbo said you should drink this." He pushed the cup across the table and even the scrape of ceramic against wood made Dwalin wince.

"All in one gulp," Bilbo called, stepping well away from the door and taking a moment to inspect the herbs on his windowsill, testing the soil in the tiny pots to see if they needed watering. "It's an old family remedy; you'll feel better in no time!"

There was a clatter of cup against saucer, Frodo's cheer as Dwalin followed his direction. Silently, Bilbo counted, waiting, and at the precise moment he reached ten there came a groaning curse and quick footsteps as Dwalin fled the room. Bilbo and Frodo watched him go with matching pleased expressions. From down the hallway came the loud slam of the bathroom door.

"Should I ask what you did to him?" Thorin said, slowly, lifting the cup with two wary fingers to peer inside at the shallow puddle left within.

Bilbo shrugged. "As I said, an old family remedy. He'll feel much better with the poison out rather than in."

Thorin hastily put the cup aside, wiping his fingers against his trousers. "I cannot believe you ever had audacity to call me awful."

"Nonsense," Bilbo huffed. "It's all to help him. He'll thank me in the end."

"I think he would have preferred beheading."

Bilbo only cocked his head, listening. "I believe he might be finished. Frodo, my boy, take him this cup and do tell him it's only mint tea. It should settle his stomach. If he doesn't trust you enough to drink it, at least try to keep him from tossing it against the wall. I'm fond of the set."

"Yessir," Frodo said solemnly, and carried the cup away.

In the kitchen, they both listened, though Bilbo noted with some amusement that Thorin had pushed aside his own tea cup without drinking it. Dwarves did seem to have a sort of solidarity in distrust. When there were no shouts, nor shattering pottery, Thorin said, "You seem interestingly well-versed in the ways of aiding those who've morning after regrets."

"If you're implying that I might have indulged myself a time or two, it's possible you're correct," Bilbo admitted. "My own da was the one who taught me that recipe, I'll have you know, and I'm quite sure he enjoyed it just as much the first time he gave me a cup of it. The shame of it is, it does work."

"If you don't mind the cure being as bad as the illness," Thorin pointed out and Dwalin chose that moment to shuffle back in, considerably paler than he had been only minutes before. Frodo was at his heels, sheepishly offering the remains of the cup to his uncle.

"He didn't throw it against the wall, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo told him, earnestly, as Bilbo tutted over the wreckage, then added, meeker, "But he did bite the handle off after he drank it. Sorry."

"It's all right, lad, I wouldn't have expected you to snatch it from the very jaws of destruction," Bilbo patted him on the head. "That was a matched set, you scoundrel."

"Give me the others and I will match them," Dwalin snarled. He made to collapse back into his chair and missed, treating all of them to the sight of him crashing to the floor. Where he remained, staring up at the ceiling as though pondering the betrayal of Hobbits and their furniture alike.

"Oh, gracious," Bilbo set aside his watering can and scurried over. "Are you all right?"

"You should worry more about your floor," Thorin said, crouching at his other side. "Dwalin, perhaps you should return to bed."

Despite the dryness of his words, Thorin laid a gentle hand on Dwalin's shoulder, checking him over for injuries. There it was again, that odd tenderness and Bilbo swallowed hard. Yes, perhaps that was a misconception that needed dealt with. There were some in the Shire certainly who would shake their heads and offer a cruel word at two lads or two male Dwarves or what-have-you pairing with each other, but Bilbo was certainly not one of them and he would not have his friends thinking he was!

"No, I should not," Dwalin said, surly in voice and expression both. "Had nothing but odd dreams and nothing of the sort that young ears should hear about."

"My dreams were pleasant enough, until someone interrupted them," Bilbo said tartly. His first dreams, anyway, he'd nearly forgotten after everything else that had happened. "I was dreaming about the poem Thorin read to me. It was a fascinating story, I'd never heard of the Dwarven King Nolder before that."

That seemed to catch Dwalin's attention and he lifted his head from the floor with a black scowl he aimed directly at Thorin, whose pleased expression melted into careful neutrality.

"Nolder?" Dwalin demanded, "You were reading to him about _Nolder?_"

"And his courtship of the lady Anairë," Thorin said defensively and he shoved Dwalin back to the floor as he climbed to his feet, sitting back at his plate where he chewed the last of his sausage with determination.

"You read to him of Nolder and Anairë's _courtship_?" Dwalin bellowed, his aching head seemingly forgotten in his indignation and Bilbo could only stand, confused, as Dwalin staggered to his feet and glared fiercely at an equally belligerent Thorin.

"It's…quite all right," Bilbo offered, tentatively, silently pushing Frodo back to his own seat. The boy stumbled, trying to walk backwards as he watched the scene before him with fascination.

"Oh, aye, quite all right," Dwalin rubbed his temples fiercely. "All about bloody war and death and the forbidden love that caused it, isn't it, Thorin?"

"Yes," Bilbo agreed, twisting his hands nervously. Was Dwalin angry that Thorin had been reading love poetry to him? Oh, how had he been so blind to what these two were to each other and Bilbo swallowed hard against a sudden ache in his throat, the faintest burn beginning at the back of his eyes for no good reason at all.

"Yes," Thorin ground out, stabbing his fork into a potato viciously, as if imagining a beheading.

"And Dwarven Kings, is it?" Dwalin put both hands on the table and leaned in, his voice a low growl. "Reading to him about _Dwarven_ Kings, are you?"

"I never said he was—" Thorin hissed and Bilbo couldn't stand it.

"It was only a poem, Dwalin, it didn't mean anything!" Bilbo blurted frantically. "If you…if you'd rather I didn't. If we didn't. If you'd rather Thorin didn't read to me again, you've only to say!"

Silence fell, the fire crackling, and two Dwarves stared at him alongside his nephew.

"Maybe I should go back to bed," Dwalin said, finally, eyeing Bilbo with an odd suspicion, though he noticed Frodo's expression falling at the thought of his playmate abandoning him and sighed heavily. "Or I might go out for a bit, I suppose."

"That seems best, go outside and rest in the fresh air," Bilbo urged, gently pushing at his shoulder, encouraging the two of them to the door. "Rest in the shade beneath the tree and you'll be feeling your…er…well, you'll be feeling like yourself in no time."

Honestly, that long-suffering expression was going to become permanent, Bilbo worried, as Frodo took Dwalin by the hand and led him out the door, promising that he and the others would behave this morning and let him rest, they would, they would.

"Yes, just a bit of rest," Bilbo called over them, then added, urgently, "Please, don't talk to any of my neighbors!"

Perhaps they should leave his mangled tea cup on the front stoop, as a warning to others.

The door closed behind them and Bilbo stood a moment longer, steeling himself before turning back to Thorin. Who was calmly gathering the breakfast dishes as though Dwalin hadn't been bellowing at him only moments before over his poetry preferences.

"It would serve him right if the children pestered him endlessly," Thorin told him, smiling faintly and Bilbo couldn't help returning it. He caught Thorin's hand as he took up another plate, stilling him, and Thorin blinked down at him, his brow creasing.

"I shouldn't like Dwalin to be upset about you reading to me," Bilbo said, a bit awkwardly, swallowing hard at the odd thickness that stubbornly lingered in his throat.

"Dwalin relishes a chance to be upset, particularly with me," Thorin told him dryly. "Please, try not to dim his joy."

"I mean it," Bilbo insisted, squeezing his hand determinedly and Thorin squeezed back, twisting so their fingers were twined.

"It was not that I was reading to you so much as it was the subject," Thorin said, and the low rumble of his voice made goosebumps rise on Bilbo's arms.

"Yes, yes, love poetry," Bilbo swallowed, and looked down. "And I want you to know that…that I'm fine with you as you two are, you do know that, don't you?"

"…Thank you?" Thorin said uncertainly. He ran his thumb over Bilbo's knuckles. "I suppose it's good to know you don't object to us being as we are."

"No, I do not object," Bilbo said firmly. He looked up again and startled to find Thorin leaning in closer, to listen better, perhaps, "And if the two of you would prefer to share a bedroom, I promise you, I wouldn't be offended."

Thorin froze, his eyes widening as he stared at Bilbo, "I beg your pardon?"

"You and Dwalin," Bilbo pressed on desperately. "I wouldn't be offended and I hope you don't think I would be! Honestly, I'd like to think you both know me better than that and—" He broke off with a yelp as Thorin roughly withdrew his hand and the shock in his eyes had narrowed to something that Bilbo could not name, though perhaps fury would be a close cousin.

"Dwalin?" Thorin said, dangerously low. "You think…Dwalin?"

Oh, well, then. It seemed he was not only wrong, but he'd managed to offend Thorin after all. "Not that…not that I think you would…do such a thing," Bilbo tried, then lifted his chin with a frown, "And not that there is a thing wrong with two lads caring about each other! I only wanted to say…that."

Thorin had given him his back, shoulders quivering beneath the fall of his hair and Bilbo only shuffled his feet awkwardly. The morning had been a great deal better when Dwalin had been the one suffering through it.

Bilbo cleared his throat, "Right then. That was all. I'll just—" He started to gather the dishes, resigned to the awkwardness of it all, when Thorin caught his wrist again, his thumb a warm pressure at the place where his pulse lay.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, a touch hoarsely and his face was faintly pink. "Dwalin and I are not together."

"I gathered that," Bilbo huffed, "And you are laughing at me! You can hardly fault me for thinking you might be, after last night!"

"Ah, yes, last night," Thorin rolled his eyes, "I can see how my being forcibly groped by a drunken fool might lead you astray. And I promise you, I am not laughing."

"You are," Bilbo said sullenly, though he twisted his arm until he could clasp Thorin's wrist as well. The warmth of it against his palm was soothing, his fingers not even close to reaching around its thickness.

Thorin's lashes dipped low, the dark fringe nearly hiding the blue beneath. "I promise you, I'm not. And you're quite correct; there is not a thing wrong with two lads caring for each other. Be that as it may, if you've little interest in Hobbit lasses, then I assure you, my interests do not lay in Dwalin."

"Right, then," Bilbo swallowed hard, wetting his lips as he looked away. "Then why was he so terribly upset about you reading poetry to me?"

There was a faint sound of Thorin clearing his throat before he admitted, wryly, "If I were to hazard a guess, he was appalled that I was reading_Elvish_ poetry to you."

That brought Bilbo's head up, his mouth dropping open, as he sputtered, "Elvish?"

Thorin's mouth twisted, "Aye, Elvish, and I'll thank you not to look at me like that. I never said it was about a Dwarven king."

No, he had not, Bilbo realized, blushing hotly, he'd simply assumed. "You said it was from the history of your people!"

"It is," Thorin agreed and his fingers were warm as they moved over Bilbo's wrist. "The household of Fëanor once held an alliance with that of Durin and so their history is also ours. For a time."

"And so that is the poetry you would choose to read?" Bilbo asked, skeptically. "Love poetry about _Elves_ is your choice?" He would have rather thought that Thorin would cut off his own braids first.

"Perhaps I simply enjoy their story, of love almost denied. There are some things that transcend race," Thorin offered, softly.

"Yes, well," Bilbo realized he was still clasping Thorin's wrist and hastily pulled away, though he must have surprised Thorin as his fingers loosened almost reluctantly. "I suppose that might be true enough. We'd best see to these dishes," Bilbo babbled on, stacking them hastily. "Mungo sent a message early on that he'd finished with your shirt."

"If you like," Thorin was slower to gather his own share of dishes, quiet as he carried them to the wash basin. For once, there were leftovers, and Bilbo fussed with them, setting them aside for luncheon as Thorin took to scrubbing the dishes.

The sausages could only hold his attention for so long and Bilbo bit his lip, watching as Thorin cleaned the plates. His hair was hanging down and as Bilbo watched Thorin reached up with a soapy hand to tuck a strand behind his ear, leaving a trail of white foam in the dark length of it.

With a sigh, Bilbo stepped forward and rubbed it away, holding on to Thorin's shoulder when he would have startled back. "Hold still, you're as bad as Frodo."

Obediently, Thorin held still, his eyes questioning as Bilbo carefully pulled his hair back so that it would be safe from the dishwater. He let his hands linger in the dark softness, for just a moment, and firmly did not think about it as he said, "I do wish you would read to me again tonight. I'd like to know how it ends, if you wouldn't mind."

Something tight in Thorin's shoulders seemed to ease and his smile for Bilbo was warm, as he agreed, "I wouldn't mind."

"Good. Right, that's settled then," Bilbo nodded firmly. "Let's finish tidying up and be off to get your shirt, shall we?"

"I can hardly wait," Thorin told him dryly and Bilbo did not bother to hold back his laughter.

* * *

><p>The shade beneath the tree atop the hill was comfortably cool in the already rising heat of the morning; its broad limbs cast restful shadows for any soul to lie beneath, particularly ones with aching heads and roiling stomachs who only sought peace to sleep in. It, as much as a tree could, offered nothing more than all the safety and comfort it could provide to those who chose to rest beneath it.<p>

Alas, it was only a tree and there was only so much it could do.

It could not, for example, stifle the voices of curious little ones who stood far too close, their loud whispers carrying easily from their hiding place behind an unlit chimney on the light morning breeze

"Is he all right then?" Merry asked, in the slightly less loud than normal voice that passed for his whisper.

"Might be," Frodo said in his own not-a-whisper. "Uncle Bilbo told me he has the after-birthday gripes."

Samwise nodded knowledgably, peering around the edge of the chimney to the figure sprawled beneath the tree. "Aye, grown-ups get that. My da had it last year after his birthday, we had to be quiet all day!"

"He had a birthday and didn't give any presents?" Merry exclaimed, with all the righteous, wounded indignation of a small hobbit slighted.

"He's a Dwarf, maybe they don't do that." The weight of their speculative gazes was like an anvil. "Do you think he feels better yet?"

"It's not been five minutes, Sam. Didn't you say your da was sick all day?"

"Aye, but he's a Dwarf! I heard it said they was carved from stone, how sick can a stone be?"

"He doesn't look like a stone," Merry said doubtfully. "He's got hair and things. And he wears clothes. Never seen any other stones wearing clothes."

"A talking stone might!" Sam argued.

"They are not made of stone!" Frodo said with every ounce of youthful exasperation that could be contained in his tiny body. "They have a ma and a da, I know! Uncle Bilbo told me that Uncle Thorin's da died and he was terribly sad about it, and he had nephews, too. How can a stone have nephews?"

"He said you can call him Uncle. Maybe he has lots of nephews."

"He does not! His nephews are dead, too, Uncle Bilbo said, and told me I'm not s'pposed to ask about them." His voice turned thoughtful, "Uncle Thorin knows a lot of dead people."

"I suppose he must do," Merry wondered, then he brightened happily, "I'm going to ask him if I can call him Uncle too, then maybe he'll give us all presents on his birthday!"

"You will not, you have lots of Uncles! I only have Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin!"

Merry scoffed aloud, "My uncles are all grumpy and smell like old grapes and feet. Mister Thorin has a beard!"

"You have to call him your Highness," Frodo told him stoutly and Samwise nodded loyally in agreement.

"Aye, you do, a King and all that."

"Highness!" Pippin chirped out from around a slobbery thumb, his tiny form hidden completely behind the stone chimney.

"Not so loud as that," Frodo hissed, casting a wary glance at the still form beneath the tree. "He's sleeping yet!"

"Highness!" Pippin repeated happily, "Highness! Highness!"

"That's not your Highness, that's Mister Dwalin and he's sleeping, so hush!"

"You hush!" Merry said defensively, tucking his wide-eyed little cousin beneath his arm. "Pippin's not so loud as all that."

"He is so! Why'd you bring Pippin anyway, Merry! He's still in nappies, he'll be peeing down his leg in no time and then where will we be? Off to take him back to his mum and Mister Dwalin might wake up while we're gone."

"His mum is in Hobbiton, visiting mine," Merry said, unhappily. "Pippin heard about the Dwarves from his mum and wanted to meet them. I promised! And we're all cousins, your guests are our guests, yes?"

"They're Uncle Bilbo's guests," Frodo said with a hint of sulk. "And Mister Dwalin doesn't want any more babies peeing on him."

"Not a baby!" Pippin howled, large tears creeping from his eyes.

"But you'll pee on him all the same...oh, don't cry! That's loud, we're not supposed to be loud!"

"Oi!" A loud, gruff voice shouted at them and all four of them fell silent, looking at the large form still sprawled out beneath the tree. One bleary, reddened eye was glaring balefully at them and the four shuffled their feet in the dirt, Pippin scrubbing at his wet cheeks as he sniffed pathetically.

"Come here, the lot of you," Dwalin growled, and slowly, they obeyed, Frodo pushed to the fore as Samwise and Merry crept up from behind him, Pippin toddling up at the rear with his ratty blanket trailing in the dirt.

They stood at his side, looking down at him with anxious gazes as Dwalin opened his other, equally red and no less irritated eye to take them all in. "To begin with, not a one of you is quiet," Dwalin rumbled and he cut off the chorus of mumbled apologies with a sharp gesture. "None of that, you'll all listen to me now. You," he pointed at Samwise, "We're not carved of stone, you shouldn't believe every tale you hear. I've a brother myself and he'd clout your ear for saying such a thing."

Samwise nodded fervently, his eyes wide and worried. "Beggin' your pardon, I weren't being rude, Mister Dwalin, sir, don't tell my da, he'll be ever so cross!"

Dwalin snorted aloud, "I'll not be carrying tales, lad, and if I see your da again, your manners will be the least of what I've to say to him. And you," he pointed sternly at Merry, who squeaked, then lifted his chin bravely. "You're not to ask Thorin if you might call him Uncle, aye? I'll not hear another word about that."

"Yes, sir," Merry muttered with ill dignity, his chin wobbling as he blinked fiercely, eyes overbright.

"You've plenty of family, lad, be grateful for it," Dwalin closed his eyes. "Now, come over here, then, and lie down. Frodo, on my other side. Samwise? You lie next to him. And you, Pippin, is it?"

"Yeth, thir?" Pippin said around his thumb, eyes wide and round.

"You lie down next to Merry. And if you piss on me, I'll be pissing right back and we'll see who makes a bigger puddle, aye?"

A chorus of horrified groans came from all around and Dwalin hushed the four of them with a glare. "Not a peep from any of you until luncheon, do you hear? Not. A. Peep."

Four small heads bobbed reluctantly up and down and Dwalin closed his eyes. "You manage that and we'll plan a raid of your Uncle's pantry, aye?"

"Yes, sir," Frodo whispered, though he squirmed with barely restrained eagerness.

"B'lieve we'll need hats, we will. And a good axe, must have good axes," Dwalin said sleepily. "Can't always let stuffed rabbits have all the good armor. _Du Bekâr!_"

"_Du Bekâr!_" Four small voices echoed, stumbling over the words. They repeated them, a slow, dwindling chant until there wasn't a soul beneath the tree's shadowy embrace still awake, a Dwarf and four hobbits snoring together, though some were louder than others.

* * *

><p>end chapter seven<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

By the time dishes were dried and put away, the kitchen tidy and sausages waiting on the sidebar for luncheon, he and Thorin needed to be off to the tailor shop lest they be late and incur the wrath of the tailor.

Hurriedly, Bilbo readied himself to go and he told himself it was because he wanted nothing to do with Mungo's short temper if they were late. It wasn't at all because he wanted to see what Mungo's talents had wrought and for Thorin to be dressed in it. No, that would be a silliness and he did owe Thorin a shirt.

He pulled on his waistcoat and straightened his cravat, for it wouldn't do to see his tailor looking slapdash, and went out the door with Thorin at his heels, and if the Dwarf seemed less happy to be going than he was to wash dishes, he at least kept his words to himself.

Just outside, Bilbo automatically looked around for one curly-headed small boy and frowned when he saw neither Frodo nor his little friends running about. His rather large friend was also nowhere to be seen and his wariness of Mungo's temper was far overshadowed by his concern for Frodo. It was only a moment of frantic searching, Frodo's name ready to be shouted at the top of his lungs if needs be, when he caught sight of the pile of them beneath the tree.

Mutely, he stood in the shadowy coolness of the tree's shade, taking in a loudly snoring Dwalin sprawled out in the dirt with four tiny hobbits curled up with him, like a mother bear cuddling her cubs. Their cherubic, sleeping faces were a marked contrast to Dwalin's broad, scarred one and Bilbo noted that Merry was drooling enthusiastically, a large wet patch spreading across Dwalin's shirt where the child's head lay.

Frodo was curled up on his other side, his small head resting on Dwalin's shoulder and Samwise snuggled behind him. A heavy arm was around them both, holding them with a fierce protectiveness that Bilbo could see even in sleep. Pippin had rolled slightly away, mouth open and his snores were a high-pitched compliment to the low roar of Dwalin's. Even he had a large, tattooed hand curled laxly around his chubby ankle, keeping him close.

Bilbo supposed he couldn't ask for a better guardian for the lot of them and when he gave Thorin a glance, he saw the other Dwarf had a hand curled over his mouth, surely stifling laughter. This would be a sight not soon forgotten he was sure, and Bilbo offered Thorin a sweet smile in return, silently promising to avenge Dwalin's honor at the tailor shop.

He turned on heel and left the snoozing heap of child and Dwarf behind him, Thorin at his side and the silence between them was comfortable, easy in its familiarity as they followed the path to Mungo's.

For all Dwalin's mocking at Thorin's sense of direction, he seemed to remember the way well enough and they were halfway there, just passing the party tree when Bilbo saw it and faltered.

Brightly striped tents were being set up, a crowd of hobbits out in the field setting up tables and streamers, their chatter and laughter too low to be understood, though Bilbo knew nonetheless what was going on.

Lanterns were being hung, barrels of ale were being rolled out because tonight it seemed there was to be a birthday party and Bilbo had not been invited.

Once, there would have been no question of his being there; his mailbox brought him invitations of all sorts, for birthdays and anniversaries and holidays, so many occasions for Hobbits rarely needed much of a reason to celebrate past good food and a bit of strong drink.

Since his return, the flow of them had dwindled and perhaps he could blame some of that on a year of unanswered invitations. Not all of it could be put to that though and Bilbo stood stiffly a moment, chest tight and blinking hard. At his side, Thorin hesitated as well, eyes catching sight of the tents and streamers.

He said nothing, which Bilbo appreciated, only laid a gentle hand on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo covered it with his own and offered a rough squeeze before he let go and moved on. It was all right in the end; he had Frodo and he had friends, and that was enough.

They walked on and left the bustling crowd behind and Bilbo gave into the impish urge to take a different path to the tailor's door, just to glimpse the confusion that passed over Thorin's face as he obediently followed along, casting surreptitious glances around as if suspicious that the very landscape had betrayed him.

They arrived with time to spare, the round door of Mungo's shop looming ominously before them and Bilbo wasted not a moment in rapping his knuckles against it.

"Quit lingering at the door and come in," Mungo called impatiently, though surely Bilbo had hardly knocked before he'd shouted. He wiped his feet carefully on the mat and stepped inside, noting with amusement that Thorin followed his example this time. All the better to escape soonest, he was sure.

They made their way once again through the stacked clutter of fabrics and dressmaker's models to the main work area and the moment Bilbo saw it, he stopped in dismay, sending Thorin bumping into him so powerfully, it nearly sent them both to the floor.

Only Thorin grabbing him kept Bilbo on his feet and for a moment they wobbled together clownishly, both struggling to keep the other from falling. Finally, Bilbo caught his balance and nearly pushed Thorin away in his panic, staring at what lay before them.

His first thought was that Mungo and his assistant must have worked feverishly through the night to make such a thing. The second was that if by some miracle he convinced Thorin to wear this back to Bag End, the light of Dwalin's glee would shine over the Shire like the coming of a second sun. It was all well and good to help Dwalin get back a portion of his own after his dinner, and its aftermath, with the Gamgees but even Bilbo could not be so cruel as this.

"Your face gives you away, Master Baggins," Mungo grumbled, walking from the back room. "I take it you aren't appreciative of my usual show of genius?"

Genius? The cut of the shirt perhaps reflected his usual skill, but the shade! A bright, gaudy blue, nearly a turquoise, something Bilbo would not dress a prankster in, much less a king. He dared a glance at Thorin's face and was met with stony resignation. It would seem Thorin had decided silence was perhaps the best option.

"It's..." Bilbo hesitated, then pushed on because one of them had to speak, otherwise this would never end and the two of them would end up as two more dressmaker's dummies, topped with summery hats and scarfs. "It's a bit…vibrant, don't you think?"

"If I'd thought that, would I have spent my time making it?" Mungo asked scathingly. "May I remind you that I do not make mistakes, Mister Baggins, therefore, if there is an error, it seems that it would be on your eyes, not mine."

It probably wouldn't do to ask Mungo if he'd gotten some sort of devastating eye injury in the past day, would it. Bilbo swallowed and tried again. "Of course I don't doubt you-"

"Naturally not. Now, get your Dwarf into this so I can check the fit." Mungo began rooting through his worktable, tossing aside scraps and drawings until he exclaimed aloud. "And this as well. And these trousers." He piled Bilbo's arms high with clothing and he struggled with it awkwardly, trying to keep from dragging anything on the floor.

"Trousers?" he sputtered. "We only ordered a shirt!"

"Aye, one for a king!" Mungo pinned Bilbo with his third-best glare and he dwindled beneath it like a cube of ice left in the sun. "You'd have the world see my finest shirt with those trousers? And you," Mungo seemed to find Thorin worthy of his second-best glare and he offered it with vigor. "Try it on. And wear those underclothes with it. If I find you putting whatever grubby things you are wearing next to my fine garments, I shall have the stepladder out in a moment to cuff your ears!"

"Of course," Thorin gritted out. He seemed to have given up whatever arrogance he'd carried along with him this morning, resigned to his fate of turquoise. With world-weary defeat, Thorin gathered the clothes from Bilbo's arms and trudged in the direction Mungo waved him wordlessly.

Bilbo only watched sadly, amazed that Mungo had done what not even an army of Goblins had managed. He'd broken Thorin's spirit.

"If you're going to help him, just keep in mind that any sounds in there echo," Mungo informed him absently, fingers drumming on his worktable as he waited.

"What?" Bilbo startled, whipping his head around to stare aghast at the tailor. "Don't be crude, it isn't like that at all!"

"Of course it isn't," Mungo said and Bilbo would not have believed him even if he hadn't rolled his eyes, bushy eyebrows bobbing.

"Mungo," Bilbo sighed, "He truly is a King. I know that seems," Bilbo gestured wildly in frustration, "Absurd, I suppose, but it's true. He's only come here to visit."

"Oh, indeed?" Mungo raised one fuzzy white brow at him, stroking a hand over his bare chin. "A King of Dwarves comes to visit you, here in the Shire, and why is that, Master Baggins?"

Oh, would the gossip never end, Bilbo fumed, saying aloud, quite shortly, "He's my friend."

Mungo only tutted aloud, shaking his head. "As you say, as you say. Well, never you mind. We'll get him tarted up for you yet." And before Bilbo could do more than sputter indignantly, Mungo raised his voice in a shout, "Shall I come assist you, your Highness, or shall I send Master Baggins in? I'm sure he can make quick work of the buttons."

"I can manage," Came back curtly. "If you step through that curtain before I am clothed, your assistant will be seeking a new master, after he cleans up the mess upon the floor."

Oh, and now the threats came. Bilbo winced and Mungo only chuckled in delight, leaning back against his worktable. "Oh, he's a good one, he is," Mungo said, low, "Kept his temper a good long while. You could do worse in a _friend_, I think."

The sound of a curtain whisking aside put off any protests Bilbo might have offered, heavy footsteps storming towards them and as Thorin came into the light, Bilbo cringed. Vibrant, he'd said, hadn't he? Perhaps gaudy would have suited it better, or even garish. From the tightness at Thorin's mouth he was much in agreement and Bilbo could only gaze at him apologetically, mentally promising to find some way to make up for this atrocious morning.

"Oh, do stop," Mungo said, exasperated, "No matter how you try, I cannot catch afire from the heat of your glare. Many in Hobbiton have tried, I assure you. Of course it seems too bright, you're looking at it wrong. It's not meant to be worn in the broad daylight. I assumed King Under the Mountain was not an empty title. Ferdinand!"

At his shout, his assistant appeared as though from thin air, his plump face alight with attention. "Pull the shades and cover the door," Mungo ordered. "Not a peep of sunlight, do you hear me, boy?"

Ferdinand scrambled to obey, neatly dodging the half-hearted kick Mungo aimed at his backside. In moments, every window was shaded, the shutters closed and bits of cloth tucked into any crevasse where sunlight might creep in, until the only light came from the low burning fire, casting the room in its gentle glow.

"There, you see?" Mungo said triumphantly.

Bilbo saw, reaching behind to brace himself against the worktable, hardly noticing the small sound that escaped from his throat.

With the colors no longer blinding him, their vibrancy muted in the soft firelight, Bilbo could only stare, silently agreeing that Mungo had not lost his genius. The shirt itself clung gently, cuffed narrowly at the wrists and tight alongside his arms, outlining the ridges of muscle that lay beneath, yet Bilbo could see some give at the shoulders, allowing for Thorin to wield his sword. At the throat was a vee in the neckline, showing the hollow of his collarbone and at the hem, a larger, mirrored vee revealed his trousers beneath. Bilbo flushed, recalled that Mungo did not like to hide a fellow's light under a basket as he called it and truly he did not. The trousers were tighter than Thorin traditionally wore them, molding to his thighs and calves, leading down to his stocking feet where Thorin had not put his own boots back on.

The tailor fussed around him, muttering beneath his breath as he checked the fit, prodding at the seams beneath the arms for their give and testing the length against Thorin's thigh. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him and he stepped back, his wrinkled face a mask of triumph, "Yes, that will do. Now, put this on and be quick about it, I had to guess at the measurements without you here."

From atop the piled fabric on his work table, he drew something heavier in a darker shade of blue, holding it up so that Thorin could slip his arms through it. A sleeveless overtunic, Bilbo realized, the darker blue a delicate contrast. The embroidery on the shirt was so fine it seemed part of the fabric and the darker overtunic reflected it exquisitely, embroidered with the same shade. Bilbo startled to recognize Thorin's family crest, though Mungo could only have seen it briefly the day before.

Thorin stood patiently as Mungo buttoned it and then stepped back, mouth pursed as he took in his work, "Yes, yes, that's a good fit. I designed it to be worn with or without a belt, since I know how you Dwarves like your pretties. The buckle can be ornate as you like but keep it to a plain silver. Something like your hair clasps would be a good match."

If Thorin had a reply to Mungo's advice, Bilbo did not hear it as the tailor stepped aside and gave him a full view of Thorin, dressed in Mungo's vision.

It was a study of remarkable elegance in simplicity; in the firelight, Thorin was every inch the King and Bilbo swallowed past the dryness of his throat, husking out softly, "You can wrap it up for us, I think. We'll take it."

It would hardly be unkind to call Mungo's expression smug. "You'll think twice before doubting me again. And you," he wagged a finger at Thorin, apparently as unimpressed by his Kingliness as ever, "I'm no cobbler, so commission yourself a set of boots before you wear this, something finer than those muddy bricks you have. Now, take it off and I'll have it wrapped for you."

Thorin nodded, slowly, his eyes resting for a long moment on Bilbo. Long enough for Bilbo to bite his lip uncertainly; surely Thorin was convinced as well? Then he turned back to the dressing rooms, casting a warning glare at Mungo's apprentice as the lad made to follow him.

The boy offered a squeaky protest and Mungo cuffed him lightly, "So gather them up after he's dressed again. He'll either gut you for taking in the view or you'll faint from it, but either way, you'd do best to wait."

Ferdinand sulked away and Mungo started gathering up a large piece of brown paper and some string, saying idly, "You must promise me you'll get him those boots when the two of you return to that mountain of his before you let him wear that, otherwise I'll keep it for myself. I'm sure a Bracegirdle or two wouldn't mind being seen in the broad daylight in that shade."

Bilbo was still thinking of that very shade and the clear way it drew out Thorin's eyes, when he realized what Mungo had said, "Me? No, I'm afraid he's just visiting. And don't you even think of trying to squeeze Hugo Bracegirdle into that lovely thing, I'd buy it and keep it in my own closet before I'd allow that."

"I'm sure you would," Mungo murmured, almost too low to be heard. He paused with his hands braced on the table, both white eyebrows lifted in a speculative look. "No adventuring left in you, then."

"It's not about adventures," Bilbo said, tiredly. "I'm sure I'll regret saying this, but I for one would be delighted to see Erebor again. It was…" he closed his eyes and let the memory of its glory fill him. "Erebor was a wonder," he finished softly. "And I've friends there. But there's Frodo to think of, isn't there. Hobbits belong in the hills of the Shire, the little valleys. Not the mountains."

"Ah," Mungo scoffed, "That scamp could do with an adventure of his own. And you needn't worry, no one will be hearing a word from me. I keep better secrets than that from worse people, young Master Baggins, mark my word."

"Thank you," Bilbo murmured, oddly touched by the temperamental old tailor's confidence.

"Quite all right. Now!" Mungo clapped his hands together, his eyes taking on a flinty gleam, "I believe there is the discussion of my fee."

The figure he named made Bilbo wince, and naturally there was the additional cost of the swift service. Bilbo made no attempt to haggle, only dropped the coins into the tailor's outstretched hands.

"I would have paid more," Bilbo said, slyly and Mungo laughed aloud.

"I would not have taken less!" he retorted and Thorin walked back in with his own clothing on, frowning at their laughter.

"Your assistant took the wardrobe," Thorin said, warily, glancing between them as though suspicious they'd been laughing about him. "And how much do I owe for your services?"

"My services have been paid for," Mungo said smoothly, and the gleam in his rheumy eyes could only be called wicked. "As for Mister Baggins, I'm afraid you'll have to ask him about that."

Thorin swept down in a short bow, his hair falling forward, before turning on heel and saying quietly over his shoulder, "As I have well learned, Mister Baggins's service is without price."

He left the darkened work area without another word and Bilbo heard the door open and close behind him as he stepped outside. The lump in his throat refused to be swallowed down and instead, Bilbo turned away, breathing deeply until he calmed.

"A friend," Mungo mused, breaking the silence, and Bilbo nearly leapt from his skin, heart hammering. By the heavens, he'd nearly forgotten the tailor was there. "I should think we'd all be so lucky to have such a friend." He exhaled explosively, clapping Bilbo on the shoulder. "Off you go then! I'll have this delivered to you by nightfall, which of course is the best time for it to be worn. Goodbye, young sir, and best wishes to you!"

And before Bilbo could utter a word, he'd been guided to the front entrance and out it, the door closed firmly behind him. The sunlight was near blinding after the darkness of the workshop and he blinked frantically, clearing his vision until he could see Thorin standing not far away, waiting for him.

Bilbo stepped up next to him, rocking on his feet as he said, brightly, "There! That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

A loud bark of laughter greeted that, Thorin leaning over to brace both hands on his knees as he laughed aloud, so deeply it seemed to near pain him. Bilbo joined him, the two of them leaning together like drunken fools and Bilbo found himself wrapped in a tight hug, Thorin's chin on his head.

"You are a menace," Thorin informed him, his chin digging uncomfortably against Bilbo's head. "I see where your nephew gets it from."

Bilbo chuckled again and squirmed free, though Thorin released him reluctantly. He peered up his nose at Thorin, saying, "That boy has learned nothing but the finest manners from me."

"Indeed?" Thorin replied dryly. "He's learned something from you, anyway, though I dare not say what."

"Oh, come along!" Bilbo said, exasperatedly, resigned to yet another battle of words lost. He grabbed up Thorin's hand and tugged him along the path. "We've just got time to get home for second breakfast."

"Surely not to be missed," Thorin rumbled, softly, though he followed willingly enough. They were nearly to Bag End by the time Bilbo realized he was still holding Thorin's hand. He had offered no protest, only trailing behind Bilbo as the children did Dwalin and though Bilbo flushed, his cheeks hot, he did not let go.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 8<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

A strange thing, were hands, Bilbo decided as they walked back to Bag End from Mungo's. His own was a perfectly decent Hobbit hand, five-fingered and equally suited to cooking and gardening as it was to reading and crochet. And to holding a sword though that was hardly amongst any list of a Hobbit's preferred talents.

The hand clasped lightly in his own was nothing like a Hobbit's. Strong, thick fingers, well-weathered by sword and axe, callused at the tips and palms. Thorin's hand was large, engulfing his own, his fingers long and broad enough to cover the back of Bilbo's.

Bilbo had held a few hands in his days, with…well, with friends, of course, and hands varied. Large, small, damp; there were warm, faintly sticky ones, like Frodo's were wont to be, and cold, clammy ones that were shaken at parties and you had to struggled not to wrinkle your nose at the feel. There were ones that clenched too tight, as if to prove their strength with a bruise or two and those that flopped in one's grasp like a sodden handkerchief. Hamfast had a good, strong handshake, and Dwalin shook with a vigor that set Bilbo's teeth rattling.

And Thorin's hand was warm and dry in Bilbo's clasp, gentle, his thumb stroking alongside Bilbo's, in the tender place between thumb and forefinger, trailing down along his wrist. The feel made him shiver, made him squeeze just a bit tighter, though Bilbo couldn't say precisely that he wanted him to stop. Instantly, Thorin squeezed back, one brief, firm tightening of his fingers. Then his thumb stirred back into motion, very nearly stroking his hand and Bilbo was forced to squeeze again at his cheekiness.

Again, Thorin squeezed back and if this was some sort of Dwarven sign language, Bilbo did not know it. It felt like some sort of game, a quick warning grip mirrored by Thorin, and for a moment there would be peace. Then Thorin would begin again, his thumb teasing, or once, all of his fingers curling against Bilbo's hand in a ticklish little movement that made him squeak aloud and nearly pull his hand free. Thorin had quit that without a warning at all, his expression innocent when Bilbo stopped right in the road to cast an exasperated look at him.

All for naught, for when Bilbo started walking again, that tricksy thumb slyly returned to its work and Bilbo kept his sigh to himself and let it.

So distracted was he by that tiny little touch, Bilbo did not even notice the three Hobbits sitting on his front bench until they were nearly upon them. Gorbadoc Brandybuck sat with his granddaughter, Esmeralda, and Eglantine Took was at her side. Esmeralda only sat politely, hands folded into her lap while Gorbadoc puffed away at his pipe. Eglantine had her own pipe, tiny and elegant, and she smoked it much the same way, utterly uncaring of what a few of those in the Shire might have to say about a lady smoking out in the day where anyone could see it.

Bilbo nearly jerked his hand away from Thorin's without even thinking and never mind they'd been walking that way through the better part of Hobbiton. Not that he minded visitors; Bag End had always been a place content enough to accept extras for tea, but, family or no, there wasn't much reason he could think of for these three to be waiting for him once they'd realized he wasn't home.

His smile was welcoming enough as he came up to them, stepping past his own gate, "Well, then, visitors already today!" Bilbo said, brightly. "Esmeralda, Eglantine, you're both looking lovely as always. I'd offer you a compliment, Gorbadoc, but I've only just seen you for tea this week, and anyway, you've not been lovely since you gave away your prettiness to your granddaughter."

The ladies laughed politely, Eglantine in a puff of smoke, and Gorbadoc offered him a wry grin, "Smart tongue on you, Bilbo, always." He nodded past Bilbo, eyes rising to take in Thorin who had followed on through the gate. "Going to introduce us to your guest, are you?"

Before Bilbo could say a word, Thorin said, coolly, "As it stands, I can introduce myself." He bowed, though it was more like the barest nod of his head, "Thorin Oakenshield, at your service."

He sounded terribly like he hoped that service would involve some sort of injury, preferable a beheading or perhaps a bit of light maiming, Bilbo thought mournfully. Whatever Gorbadoc had been about to say to that was cut off by a sharp elbow from his granddaughter and he coughed out his words instead, something that sounded very much like, "Aye, I'll bet you are."

"Bilbo, lovely to see you as always," Eglantine said smoothly, "And your guest as well. I'm only in Hobbiton for the day, of course, and we thought we might stop by and see you."

"Certainly," Bilbo nodded, and gestured grandly to his front door. "Do come in for tea, won't you?"

Not a one of them stirred and Esmeralda added, lightly, "We had some family business to discuss. You understand, of course."

"Of course," Thorin said, curtly, and say what you would about Dwarves, he caught on before Bilbo did. "I should check on Dwalin and Frodo." He offered another jerk of the head that was in no way a bow, barely even stirring his hair. "A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure."

His glance at Bilbo held none of his severity, something in it that was softer and faintly desperate in a way that left Bilbo perplexed. His hand twitched as if Thorin was resisting the urge to touch, perhaps give Bilbo's shoulder a comforting squeeze. In the end, he only clenched his hand into a fist and gave Bilbo a silent, deep bow of his own, a properly respectful one, before he turned on heel and walked away.

"You as well," Came in an echoing murmur from the three on the bench, nearly too late for Thorin to have heard, though if he did or not, he acknowledged it not at all.

Bilbo steeled his own smile, gritting his teeth as he said, "Well, then, about that tea. Shall we?" This time his family rose to their feet, pipes tapped out and skirts smoothed as they followed Bilbo up the steps to his front door. His hand still ached faintly from the force of his hasty withdrawal from Thorin's and Bilbo did not even bother to rub the ache away. Just as well to have it, he decided miserably, it would probably be the best part about this impromptu tea party.

* * *

><p>Despite the unceasing sense of doom that loomed over the small party in his dining room, Bilbo played the part of host keenly, fetching his best tea set as his second-best had recently met a partial disaster at the force of Dwalin's teeth. Biscuits were laid out, along with a fine selection of cheeses and little cakes that had originally been baked with Frodo and a pair of Dwarves in mind. He'd make it up to them, Bilbo promised mentally, laying out a generous selection of treats for his guests since, unwelcome or not, they were family.<p>

There was little chatter as the tea brewed, Gorbadoc tapping his cane lightly on the floor and the ladies making up plates for all. Bilbo's nerves, already on edge, sharpened to razor-fine by the time he poured out a cup of soothing chamomile for all and offered sugar cubes around.

It was no surprise to him when Gorbadoc was the one to break the increasingly uncomfortable silence with his usual aplomb, "All right, let's have it out then. I've no mind to sit here all day gabbling about the weather." He fixed Bilbo with a rheumy-eyed stare. "There's been some concern around the family, you may as well know, about you taking in Frodo as you have."

"Has there?" Bilbo asked idly, sipping politely at his tea. "I believe I addressed those concerns when I took the lad in." At the expense of his pocketbook, he had, Bilbo thought sourly, and not a few of his relations' worries had been miraculously silenced by a gold coin or two slipped into their pockets.

"Things have changed since then, though, haven't they?" Esmeralda asked, in her soft, gentle way. Her brown eyes were as softly concerned as her manner of speaking, the long curls of her youth bound up now in a tight bun. "It isn't only the family who has been saying things, though some of them have been quite loud enough in the past few days."

"Dwarves," Eglantine added, nibbling at a biscuit. Her own riot of frizzy curls were bound up in a loose ponytail, one wisp stubbornly falling over her forehead. "These guests of yours—"

"Aye, these guests," Gorbadoc broke in as he gnawed on a wedge of soft cheese. "Seems Lobelia's had some things to say about your guests," He pointed a wrinkled, accusing finger at Bilbo, "B'lieve you told me the other day at tea that they weren't yours."

"If I had been aware of whom they were or that they were coming at all, I would have said," Bilbo told him, struggling for mildness. Chamomile hardly seemed soothing enough and he wished briefly for a quick draught of Hamfast's homebrew. "And they are hardly_ my_Dwarves. They are friends, yes, they aren't furniture."

"Be that as it may, people are talking, Bilbo, and they are concerned," Esmeralda said serenely. "Now, I know that my Merry has met them and the large fellow has been spending a great deal of time with the children—"

"Yes, he has," Bilbo said shortly. "And as far as I can see, he's been nothing but kind to each of them. Frodo for one adores him and I'd like to know when it became a crime to be kind to a child."

It was a small, sour bit of satisfaction to see Esmeralda taken aback at his fierceness. "Why, Bilbo, I never said it was!"

"Then what are you saying?" Bilbo demanded, shoving aside his own teacup, uncaring as it slopped messily to the table. Esmeralda and Eglantine wore matching expressions of dismay as he stood, bracing his hands on his table. "You've come into my home claiming you want to discuss family business, but the only business I hear you discussing is mine! My guests are my concern alone and unless you are accusing them of somehow harming those children, I don't see why you're worried about it!"

"We aren't," Gorbadoc said mildly, slurping down his own tea and snagging up Bilbo's untouched cup to drink as well. "Never said we were, did we."

That took a bit of the fire from his indignation. Bilbo blinked and felt a hot flush creep up his face as he sank back into his chair, "Oh," he muttered, weakly. "Then what—"

Eglantine let out an indelicate snort. "We came to tell you that people are talking, that's all, Bilbo!" She gave him a cheeky smile, one he well-remembered from his younger days. "If you'd like to take on a troop of Dwarves as guests, I'd not mind one jot or tittle!" She laughed, then, fondly. "Did you see the large fellow asleep on the hill with the children! Pippin howls bloody murder every time I lay him down for a nap at home and there he was, sprawled out in the dirt snoring with the lot of them!"

"Merry has done nothing but chatter about him," Esmeralda added with a soft laugh of her own. "Mister Dwalir, he calls him, isn't it?"

"Dwalin," Bilbo murmured, automatically, and Esmeralda nodded, smiling sweetly.

"Yes, yes, Mister Dwalin! He ran home that very day to tell me he'd beaten up a Dwarf!" Esmeralda hid her giggles behind a napkin while Eglantine coughed crumbs into her hand, laughing loudly.

"Oh, he would, that scamp!" Eglantine shook her head. "Bilbo, they do seem like fine enough fellows." She frowned a bit, "Though that other one seems a bit fierce, doesn't he? The one you were holding hands with, Thorin did he say his name was?"

"Erm, yes," Bilbo mumbled, "We weren't really holding hands, you know…."

"Ach, Dwarves are a possessive bunch," Gorbadoc waved that aside, gumming the last biscuit into submission. "Everyone knows that. Now, we all know why Lobelia's wants to take on the lad, Bilbo. Primula and Drogo weren't the wealthiest of Hobbits but they had a small nest egg set aside. How she bullied her way into taking him to begin with I'll never understand," His watery blue eyes turned serious, regarding Bilbo solemnly. "But you must know there are others who'd happily take the boy on, inheritance or no."

The very thought of it sent his temper soaring and Bilbo drew a calming breath, did not think of how empty Bag End would seem without Frodo's laughter ringing through it.

"I'm sure there are," Bilbo said, through gritted teeth. "But Frodo is happy here, as he has not been since we lost his parents and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to tear him away from that happiness. He has friends, he has family and I take care of him."

"There's others who can take care of him as well, Bilbo," Esmeralda said, gently. "I'd have taken him in myself if I'd not had all the others; he and Merry are quite close in age."

The thin hold he had on his temper snapped; days, no, weeks, months, a few years piled together of gossip and sour looks weighing down on him and Bilbo snarled at the three of them, "No one is taking my child away from me! If I have to leave Hobbiton and the Shire, and take off into the mountains themselves, I would! I've the money and the mind to do it, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can sod off!"

Bilbo bit his lip, hard, stifling other words that were threatening to spill, things that were no one's business but his own. Coming home had been less than he'd hoped when he'd arrived, and that had nothing to do with finding many of his possessions lost or sold. During his travels, he'd dreamed so often of Bag End, of his comfortable chair and his books, and the warmth of a fireplace in the evening. He'd had all that on his return and in the end, it had not been enough.

He could not go back to those days, wandering around the emptiness of Bag End, pretending to be writing at his book, meals blurring together, his evenings spent reading while he tried not to let his eyes linger on a stolen map and the memories that came with it. Perhaps he had helped Frodo, taken him in at the lowest point of his grief, given a miserable child a home and his love, but in the end, Frodo had been his salvation as well and Bilbo was not about to allow either of them to be that lonely again.

His kin, all three of them, seemed unperturbed at his outburst, only sipped at their tea or nibbled at a treat, "Spoken like a true parent," Eglantine said, with unusual gentleness on her part.

"You're happier with him here as well," Gorbadoc said shrewdly and Bilbo nodded jerkily.

"Home is a place, but it is nothing without people in it," Bilbo said, a tad hoarsely, and he poured a fresh cup of tea to drink away the rawness in his throat.

"True enough!" Gorbadoc said cheerily. "Well, then, Lobelia will be getting an earful about her nastiness from those of us at Brandy Hall, you mark my work. The Gamgee's have had a thing or three to say about your guests, too. The entire brood of them seem to think that large one hung the moon, the stars, and possibly the apples from the trees." The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he added, "Mungo Danderfluff seems quite taken with the other one, I hear, but whether or not that helps your reputation is out of my hands."

"That isn't the only reason we came visiting, Bilbo," Eglantine added, drawing elegant linen envelope from her little drawstring bag. She handed it to him with a warm smile. "I wanted to give you this personally, well, to you and Frodo."

Perhaps Bilbo could be forgiven for the slight tremor of his fingers as he took it from her, opening the flap to withdraw the invitation. It was written neatly in Eglantine's fine script, inviting Bilbo and Frodo Baggins to the coming of age birthday party of one Pearl Took, to-night beneath the Party Tree.

"Of course," Bilbo murmured, lightly touching the neat letters and blinking when they seemed to blur. "Pearl is thirty-three, isn't she."

"She is today," Eglantine said wryly, and did not ask before drawing out her pipe and packing the bowl with pipe weed, though she offered her pouch around for the others to refuse. She lit it with a practiced flick of her match, puffing in the sweet-smelling cloud as though smoking her own salvation. "And we'd both like for you and young Frodo to be there, please and thank you."

"Please and thank you, yourself!" Bilbo laughed, something tight in his chest loosening. "We'll be there for treats and ale alike, though I'll stay with one and Frodo the other!"

"So long as Frodo keeps to the treats," Esmeralda added with a soft laugh and then they all jerked in shock as the front door burst open beneath a wave of childish shouts and small feet.

Before any of them could so much as rise from their chairs, the dining room was filled with what seemed to be a raggedy band of juvenile brigands, though they all seemed terribly familiar. One who strongly resembled Frodo with a makeshift eye patch carried his noble ladle like a sword, the cup of the spoon waved warningly at the adults as he shouted to his brood, "_Du Bekâr!_ Come along now, lads, it's this way!"

Another child, who looked a great deal like Samwise Gamgee with an overturned bucket on his head, waved a small frying pan ferociously, while another that reminded Bilbo of Meriadoc, his tiny head engulfed in a large, fluffy hat that strongly reminded Bilbo of the one Bofur had worn, brandished a wire whisk before scrambled towards Frodo. With a loud grunt of effort Merry boosting the other child up so that he might snatch the large, and quite full, jar of cookies from atop its shelf.

"Back, keep back, I say," snarled Not-Samwise, with all the savagery one might expect from a particularly fierce and slightly plump kitten, his little chin wobbling as he defended his company from the dumbfounded adults, waving his little frying pan as though battling the Goblin hordes of the Misty Mountains themselves.

Behind him, a smaller bandit, who looked quite like Peregrin Took with a ragged blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape and a wooden bowl sat upon his small head, peeked around Samwise. He beamed up at them as he waved a spindly stick topped with a bit of folded paper to make it look like a spear, chirping out, happily, "Mumma!"

"No, no, no," Not-Merry scolded, panting as Frodo wobbled on his shoulders, struggling with the heavy jar. He winced as Frodo stepped clumsily on his head, wheezing out,"_Du Bekâr!_, remember! We are Dwarves and we are strong, we bow to no one!"

" Be-kar," Quite-Certainly-Pippin repeated doubtfully, tugging on his damp nappy, his wide green eyes darting from his mother to cousin just as Frodo made it back to the floor, hardly even stepping on Merry's feet as he howled in triumph.

"For Erebor!" Frodo shouted, brandishing the treats over his head and the others joined him, a chorus of young voices filling the kitchen in a discordant cry of victory as they claimed Bilbo's cookie jar in the name of the great Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor.

He made to dart away, lugging it along, and then Frodo hesitated, his blue eyes casting back at the stunned adults uncertainly. Quickly, he opened the jar, snagging out four of the cookies and he darted back to the table to set one neatly in front of them all. With a satisfied nod, he ran back to his fellow brigands, snatching up the jar again, and just as quickly as they'd come, they were gone, the door shut behind them but not before a loud Dwarven voice could be heard declaring the raid a success, and they were all of them good lads, weren't they.

Gorbadoc munched happily on his newly begotten cookie, oblivious to the frozen expressions around him. "He does keep them entertained, doesn't he. Does he do parties?"

Eglantine managed to recover almost as quickly, her pipe barely hanging between her clenched teeth. With two fingers, she gingerly picked up the cookie, eyeing it as though the raisins within might yet betray them and attack. "He does entertain them at that. Dwalin, you said his name was, didn't you, Bilbo?"

"I did, yes," Bilbo said, faintly. He rather hoped they brought back the jar when they were finished.

"Do invite them along, won't you? Dwalin and your Dwarf, Thorin, it was. Pearl would be delighted, I do believe," Eglantine said, adding dryly, "I can already see that Pippin will as well."

"Yes, you must," Esmeralda agreed and something of her sweetness melted into a touch of vindictive glee, "If only to see the look on Lobelia's face! Oh, do persuade them into coming, Bilbo, I'd give you a month's worth of Sunday puddings for that!"

"He's not really mine," Bilbo mumbled, weakly, and found himself utterly ignored as both Eglantine and Esmeralda nodded as though everything had been decided, and took up their cookies in solidarity despite the uncertain nature of the raisins.

* * *

><p>End Chapter Nine<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

His relations did not stay long after toasting their cookies to one another; as Eglantine had party arrangements to finish, along with a toddling son turned to thief to deal with. Esmeralda thought she might seek out her own brigand and ask if might want luncheon to go along with his cookie spoils. It was a kindness on their part that they dragged Gorbadoc along with them, though Bilbo was somewhat bemused that it was Esmeralda who had demanded a promise that he would ask his Dwarven company along to the party and her adamancy made Bilbo curious as to what Lobelia had done to warrant his sweetest cousin's wroth.

With the door closed behind them, Bilbo found himself once again alone in Bag End with dishes to clean. He stacked up tea cups and saucers, wiping away crumbs and found his mind wandering, wondering where Thorin had gone off to. Where did he go, Bilbo wondered, not-quite-idly, when he wasn't in Bag End. He hadn't been sitting on the bench nor beneath the tree when Bilbo had seen his guests off and neither had he been in the garden, though Bilbo supposed there was no surprise there and perhaps a touch of relief that he hadn't gone off to sort through the various 'green things' in search of weeds without supervision.

He'd hardly gathered the dirty dishes on a tray when he heard the front door open and for a moment Bilbo thought perhaps Thorin had been quite close by, spying on them and waiting for the unexpected guests to leave. Not that he could blame Thorin for that, since he'd been rather uninvited to this particular tea party, but the very thought of Thorin creeping around, watching Bilbo's little door suspiciously brought a smile to his face.

To his surprise, it wasn't Thorin at all sneaking into Bag End; instead, it was a far meeker Frodo than the one who had just raided his pantry, his eye patch dangling from its thread around his neck and a very empty cookie jar in hand as he crept up to Bilbo, his large blue eyes anxious.

Hastily, he offered the jar to Bilbo, who took it with no small bemusement. There were hardly even crumbs within it and if it weren't such a small jar, he would believe someone, possibly a large Dwarf, had stuck their head inside it to lick it clean. He supposed he was lucky it hadn't been returned to him with someone's noggin firmly stuck within it.

"Uncle Thorin told me to bring it back," Frodo said, uncertainly, "He said it isn't nice to steal."

"Did he now?" Bilbo said, fighting to keep back a smile as he examined his cookie jar with unnecessary thoroughness. That answered the question of where Thorin had gone, though not where he was now.

"Yes," Frodo said, nodding solemnly. "And he was loud at Mister Dwalin."

"Was he?" That gave Bilbo a pause. "What did he say?"

He regretted that question the moment he asked it, cringing as he waited to hear what sort of words might tumble from Frodo's innocent mouth. The child only frowned, his little brow creasing. "He said lots of words I didn't understand."

He sounded rather disgruntled by that and Bilbo appreciated the sentiment. Little was quite as irksome as not understanding the language others were speaking around you and while Bilbo had grown somewhat accustomed to it, it had never ceased to irritate him. Particularly when he suspected most of those incomprehensible conversations had been about him.

Frodo's scowl told Bilbo that they were of like minds on that issue. "Then Mister Dwalin said lots of words I didn't understand. And thenUncle Thorin hit him, pow!"

"What?!" Bilbo very nearly dropped the jar, gaping at his nephew who nodded with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. Perhaps those stories about Trolls and spiders had had an unintended side effect on the boy.

"He did!" Frodo chirped happily. "And Mister Dwalin fell down and he laughed. Then he kicked Uncle Thorin's knee and knocked him down." Frodo collapsed to the floor in demonstration, sprawling out at Bilbo's feet.

"Oh, lovely," Bilbo muttered. When he'd wondered where Thorin was, public brawling hadn't been on his mind. "I don't suppose Merry and Pippin had gone home by then."

"Not until after," Frodo said, unhappily, rolling easily back to his feet. "Uncle Thorin told Mister Dwalin to behave and said we should go home and say sorry. I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo," he said, earnestly, adding with what Bilbo thought was not quite the proper amount of shame, "Stealing is wrong."

"It is, indeed," Bilbo said sternly. Frodo wilted instantly, blue eyes welling, and Bilbo relented with what was surely unseemly haste. "And while I hope you remember the lesson, I think we can forgive a few cookies, my lad. Was it your Uncle Thorin who told you stealing is wrong?"

"Yes," Frodo scowled again. "After he took one of the cookies."

Do not laugh, Bilbo told himself, biting the inside of his lip. Do not laugh or you'll have little ones as well as large Dwarves invading your cookie jar until the end of time. The petulance on Frodo's small face should not be so endearing and Bilbo could only imagine Thorin plucking a cookie from their hoard even as he scolded the little misbegotten thieves of baked goods, as well as their ringleader who'd probably been crunching down the treats without an ounce of shame.

He managed to keep his laughter in his throat, though it was a near thing. A bit hoarsely, Bilbo added, "And despite what Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin do, I'd like to remind you that hitting is wrong as well. We shouldn't hurt our friends."

"I would never!" Frodo said, staunchly, lifting his pinkie in a childish promising swear. "Uncle Thorin said that, too. He said Dwarves are made of sterner stuff and Hobbits need to 'have a care'." Without a pause for breath, rocking on his heels with undisguised eagerness, Frodo blurted out, "Uncle Bilbo, can we go over to the Eastfarthing woods?"

That was an unexpected question and Bilbo looked up at him in surprise, a plate still in hand. "Whatever for?"

His surprise was answered but not his confusion when Frodo told him, "Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin went over there, but Mister Dwalin said he'd not take me so far from home without you. Can we go?"

What heaven's name could they be doing in the Eastfarthing woods, Bilbo wondered. There was little over there but trees and the little river winding gently through them; nothing that would be of interest to two Dwarves, or so Bilbo thought. Surely it wasn't anything dangerous as Dwalin would have simply told Frodo no rather than telling him to ask Bilbo along as guardian.

The dirty dishes were still stacked up and there was a scattering of crumbs over the table, mostly where Gorbadoc had been sitting. Bilbo had a small list of other chores than needed doing as well, laundry, mopping the floor, his garden could use a quick weeding…and abruptly every one of those tasks seemed dreadfully boring.

"I don't see why not," Bilbo said, plunking the dishes back down on the table and dusting off his hands theatrically. Frodo cheered, his round face alight with happiness, and he darted towards the door, grabbing up Bilbo's favorite walking stick and bouncing on his feet impatiently as he waited for Bilbo to join him.

They stepped out the door together, Frodo close to Bilbo's side as they made their way down that path. As adventures went, this was a rather small one, but then, Frodo was rather small.

They'd work their way up.

It was a fine, fair day for a walk. The sun was pleasantly warm and the very air was filled with the sweetness of summer; it lay heavy with the flowery aroma of the gardens and flowerbeds that lined the path and the sharp aroma of freshly mown hay. Frodo took to running ahead, calling happy greetings to any they passed and most replied amicably enough, nodding a quick hallo to Bilbo.

They caught a glance at Hamfast and Samwise Gamgee, working together in their own garden and their matching smiles were friendly, the two of them tugging weeds with enthusiasm. Bilbo firmly ignored the twinge of guilt that sight gave him and mentally offered both apology and promise to his own tomatoes that tomorrow he'd give them a good going over. Hamfast would do it cheerfully if Bilbo allowed it, but where was the pride in prize-winning tomatoes when someone else grew them?

The walk through Hobbiton went quickly enough and soon enough the Eastfarthing woods lay before them. In the forest proper the sun's heat diminished beneath the shady tree limbs and the air took on a certain cool dampness that reminded Bilbo of other times and places, of another wood.

Frodo kept him from peering too deeply into those memories, the lad trotting happily beside him, straining his young eyes as he looked about them. At everything, surely, for Bilbo had never brought Frodo here before and it was doubtful his parents had. Hobbits did enjoy a good walking holiday but Frodo was only just getting to a proper age to enjoy one.

Likely they were the only ones here in the wood; the weather had not been friendly for mushrooms and most other Hobbits were probably not off playing hooky from chores. That left only a misbehaving Bilbo and his ward to the forest and the both of them had their eyes set on searching for any sign of their two misplaced Dwarfs.

The sudden familiar clang of blades against each other made Bilbo startle and instinctively he grabbed Frodo, pulling him back behind a tree. His heart thundering wildly, Bilbo peered around the trunk and his eyes caught a blur of motion. He leaned out a bit further to see, Frodo clutched to his chest despite the boy's complaints.

It was them, to be sure; Thorin was dressed in his full armor as Bilbo had not seen since they'd first arrived and Orcrist was in his grip, its blade gleaming lustily in the dimmed light that crept in through the trees.

Dwalin had his pair of axes in hand and as Bilbo watched the two of them slowly circled each other, Thorin with familiar grace, smooth and languid while Dwalin trod heavier, a lumbering pace that was no less dangerous. If Thorin were to be a fierce cat then Dwalin was a bear, teeth bared and his eyes glittering wildly.

"Come, then!" Dwalin called and the grin splitting his face widened. "Are we going to play, princeling? Or shall we stare at each other until your face becomes as ugly as mine?"

Thorin said nothing, the blade in his hands sweeping silently through the air as he shifted his grip to keep it pointed at Dwalin while they moved. There was no smile on his face, no warmth; only cool calm, his eyes assessing, weighing his options.

Dwalin only grinned the wider, hefting his axes as he made a rude, impatient sound. "Oh, and is this how I taught you, little one? Hoping if you wait long enough I'll drop dead from age and you'll not have to make a move?"

Again, there was no response, though Orcrist flashed as Thorin twirled it in a mingled warning and taunt. Each step was precise, each shift of foot and weight measured between them as they circled.

They might have done nothing more for hours, Bilbo thought, each waiting patiently for the other to make the first move, each taunting with word and blade. He would never know as Frodo took that moment to squirm away from him, protesting loudly, "Uncle Bilbo, you're holding too tight! I can't see!"

In that moment, Bilbo saw Dwalin's eyes dart towards them, the briefest flicker and that was enough. In a blur, Thorin was in motion, quick and silent as the wind as he raised his sword and Bilbo covered his mouth to stifle his gasp when it seemed to him Dwalin barely managed to block the strike. Orcrist caught between Dwalin's upraised axes with a screaming crash of metal against metal that echoed through the quiet woods.

They strained against each other, their faces twisted into snarls, until with a tremendous roar Dwalin shoved Thorin back, his King staggering two steps before he was again in motion. They moved together with the harsh grace Bilbo remembered, a well-practiced dance of sword and axe, and Bilbo wondered that anyone could think Dwarves as clumsy or oafish. None who could see them now would doubt their lithesome nature. They moved not with the willowy motion of the Elves, but like the harsh flow of water, of waves crashing against stone.

Again and again, they struck at each other; Thorin's fluidity a match to Dwalin's fierceness and neither gained the upper hand. It was Thorin that drew Bilbo's eye, the near elegant sweep of his sword reminding him of the first time he had seen Thorin draw a blade, bursting from the line of trees to rescue Bilbo from the hands of mountain trolls. If rescue indeed had been on his mind then and not simply retrieving their lost ponies. His memory of that night was equal parts sharp and blurred; some things were quite clear in his mind while others were lost to the dulling of passing years.

He had not forgotten his own fear while in the hands of those trolls nor the expression on Thorin's face as he grimly set aside his own blade. Those memories were clear, at least.

Thorin's expression now was one of savage joy, sweat dampening his face and hair, braids twirling as he struck, taking the advantage and driving Dwalin back. For a moment Bilbo held his breath, sure that Thorin had the other Dwarf beaten; only to have Dwalin rally, his own vicious strikes forcing Thorin into defense. Back and forth they went, moving through the complex rhythm of it where neither gained the upper hand. Until finally, exhaustion began to clumsily their movements and Thorin finally held up a hand, leaning heavily against a tree.

Dwalin matched him across the grove, panting as fiercely as he grinned, "Begging off, are we, your Highness!" he called out between gasping breaths. "I'll not mind if you need to concede, all that time spent with your backside in a throne is bound to slow a fellow down!"

"I concede only to your age," Thorin shouted back, breathing just as heavily. "If I allow you to drop dead, I would never hear the end of it from your brother!"

That seemed to be Dwalin's cue to drop into Khuzdûl and Bilbo thought he should probably be grateful for that as Thorin's amused face seemed to indicate that tender young Hobbit ears should not hear what Dwalin had to say to that taunt.

Said young Hobbit squirmed free of Bilbo's grip, darting through the trees to Dwalin and looked up at him with shining eyes. "That was brilliant!" Frodo crowed in delight. "You were all…grah!" Frodo howled in a fair, if much higher pitched, imitation of Dwalin's roar. To Bilbo's amusement, the boy twisted himself about, mimicking their battle postures with a handy stick until Dwalin put out a hand and easily pushed the boy to the ground.

"You need a little work," Dwalin told him, one side of his mouth tipping up in a smirk as Frodo giggled up from the leafy ground, scrambling back to his feet. "Come along, then, let's see what you have." Dwalin clapped a large hand on Frodo's shoulder, nearly sending him tumbling back down, and soon the forest was alive again with the sound of battle. Though somehow the clack of sticks was not quite as threatening.

Thorin seemed to realize he'd lost his playmate, sheathing his sword with a shake of his head. The stream was not far away and Bilbo followed Thorin to it, watched as he scooped up handfuls of cool water to splash his face.

"What was that about, then?" Bilbo asked. Thorin did not reply, seemingly giving up his efforts and dunked his head entirely into the water. Torrents of water streamed from his hair, rivulets running down his face that Thorin swiped away, pressing his palms briefly against his eyes and only then did he turn to Bilbo.

His lashes were wet and spikey around his eyes, their blue piercing as he asked, curtly, "And what did your kinsmen have to say?"

"Nothing I did not expect," Bilbo said, simply, unperturbed by the change in topic. "There are some who are concerned about the wisdom of allowing Frodo to stay with me."

Thorin breathed a low curse, his expression dark. "And our presence has not reassured them, I assume?"

"Now wait just a moment," Bilbo protested, "That's not at all true-" Not all true, anyway, and so it was not too much of a lie to reassure him. Though if it was, it was a failed lie for Thorin only scoffed, tossing his sodden hair back, even as long, wet strands clung to his forehead and tangled with his braids.

"Do you think I do not know what other people say about mine?" Thorin scorned. Water was still running from his temples, close to his eyes, and he swiped at it impatiently with a gloved hand, pacing away and then back in his agitation. "Your kinswoman said it clearly enough when we first arrived. Thieves and beggars, was it not? My people were once known for their honor and I would have us known thusly again."

"Thorin-" Bilbo tried again, gently, and was summarily ignored, Thorin sweeping past him, only to turn on heel and storm back, looming over Bilbo with anger shining in his eyes.

"I swore I would keep my temper even and my tongue still while here with you and your kin," Thorin bit out, each word dropping with harsh precision. Again, Thorin shoved his hair roughly back, the aglets of his braids chiming lightly against his gauntlets at his uncaring force, and he was as taken apart as Bilbo had seen him since he arrived. "Only to find that my mere presence may cost you your child."

"Thorin, you aren't costing me anything except groceries," Bilbo soothed, something of Thorin's frustration feeding his own calm. They couldn't the both of them be caught up in their worries and Bilbo's had been rightly soothed with both tea and company. Now he only caught Thorin's wrists in both hands, stilling him. "Listen to me now, they won't take Frodo from me, I'd never allow it."

"Neither would I," Thorin told him, heavily, "And that is just what they expect, is it not? It is not enough for me to rebuild my people's lives; I must also rebuild our reputations. I wish for others to see us for who we truly are, not as they recall us from our lowest time." There was old pain there, limned with lingering bitterness and Bilbo desperately hated to hear it.

"I see you for who you are," Bilbo said thickly, unnamed emotion tight in his throat. He stepped past Thorin's hands and wrapped both arms around him, hugging him tightly. A moment's hesitation and then arms circled him roughly as well, squeezing until his ribs groaned a protest. He could feel wet strands of hair tickling against his cheeks as Thorin held him close and the rich, hot smell of his sweat was nothing like the furtive whiff Bilbo had stolen from his old shirt.

One hand shifted from him, lifted up and he felt Thorin tug his glove off with his teeth, spitting it aside and then there was a hot, sweaty palm at the nape of his neck, pulling him in so that their foreheads rested together. He fumbled his own hand through the wet, clinging mass of Thorin's hair, matching his hold, the two of them clinging to each other in a mess of gripping hands and wet, tangled strands of hair.

Abruptly, Bilbo realized he no longer heard childish giggles, nor the clack of sticks that the others had armed themselves with and he pulled back a fraction, Thorin's arms loosening reluctantly, and turned his head to see Dwalin and Frodo watching them, their faces alive with interest.

Flustered, he stumbled away and nearly fell, caught by Thorin's hand still gripping the back of his neck. He glared at them both, shouting, "Oi! You two, mind yourselves!"

"Oh, I beg your pardon, the both of you," Dwalin swept down in an exaggerated bow, "Didn't realize this was a private forest. Don't be minding us, we'll step out to the path and leave you to it."

Bilbo sputtered, his face crawling with heat, not that it was anything like that. There wasn't a thing wrong with two friends comforting one another; even Dwarves believed that, he was quite sure!

"You should use what time you can with the boy, Dwalin," Thorin called out with spiteful glee, his hand still damp and warm at the nape of Bilbo's neck. "It may be some time before you can spar again with someone at your level of skill."

Oh, that was a rude gesture, Bilbo winced, praying Frodo had not noticed. A vain hope for he surely noticed the one Thorin returned, his avid little eyes taking in each and probably already imagining teaching his newfound sign language to his young friends.

He may yet have to leave the Shire after all.

Dwalin only snorted out a gruff laugh, slapping Frodo's hands down as he gamely tried to imitate his idols, and hopefully whatever he was whispering to the boy involved an explanation of difference between a grown-up's and a child's acceptable hand gestures.

In a moment, they were another grove over, Dwalin's shouts muted alongside Frodo's giggles and Thorin had not yet moved his hand, his fingers twining lightly into Bilbo's curls. It seemed terribly rude, even insensitive, to shrug his touch away and instead, Bilbo only stood there, twisting his own fingers together as he tried to think of a thing to say.

"Did Dwalin train you?" Bilbo asked finally, recalling what he had said and Thorin snorted aloud.

"He did not. Dwalin only seems older than time," Thorin said dryly. His thumb moved in slow circles against the smooth skin that lay at Bilbo's nape. "We are not that far apart in age. Balin did some training with the both of us and there were plenty of others. But our weapons are different enough that we did little together until we were older and ready to spar." His mouth turned down in a small frown as he conceded, "It's possible he may have taught me a trick or two. Possible."

"I'm sure he…did…" Bilbo trailed off in a squeak as Thorin drew him closer, resting his chin atop Bilbo's head. Well, perhaps he still felt a bit fragile, Bilbo decided, leaning into the touch with a quiet sigh. For all that he was a hot, sweaty, dripping wet mess, Thorin smelled surprisingly nice, all warm richness that Bilbo found himself surreptitiously trying to inhale.

"You never told me what your kinsmen said," Thorin reminded him, quietly, his beard catching lightly in Bilbo's hair, tugging not unpleasantly.

"I can tell you that they didn't say anything about thieving, untrustworthy Dwarves or whatever it was you were on about," Bilbo said tartly. "In fact, they were there to ask us all to a party." Perhaps that was glossing over things a bit, but what Thorin did not know would not hurt him.

"A party?" Thorin asked, doubtfully. He was rubbing his cheek against the top of Bilbo's head now, most disconcertingly.

"Yes, a party. A birthday party," Bilbo corrected and nodding his head alongside Thorin's odd, cheeky sort of petting felt decidedly strange. "My little cousin Pearl is turning thirty-three and her mother would like terribly much for us to all attend. Her eldest child. It's all quite important."

"I'm sure it is," Thorin's breath stirred his hair and Bilbo shivered a bit, helplessly. "And you told them—"

"That we would be delighted to attend," Bilbo lied, smoothly. "And that the four of us would be there promptly this evening, happy as clams and twice as eager."

He felt rather than heard Thorin's soft chuff of laughter. "And so we shall be," Thorin said, dryly. "Though I do hope there's time for me to bathe. I'm sure I smell appalling."

Bilbo managed to keep his thoughts on that to himself.

"Yes, well," Bilbo coughed, finally drawing away. "Shall we gather the children and be off? If you're going to wash up, we should be getting back."

"Yes, let's gather the children," Thorin said, wryly. "I'll carry yours if you carry mine."

Half the birds in the forest startled away at Bilbo's shout of laughter.

Taking Thorin's hand in his own was nearly automatic and Bilbo flushed as he realized what he'd done, though Thorin only stooped to collect his glove before following along, docile as a pet on a lead. He did tug off his other glove as well, again using his teeth, and the sight of that even, white line digging into the leather sent an appalling rush of flutters through Bilbo's tummy.

Squeezing Thorin's hand was not revenge enough, Bilbo decided, and instead he squirmed all of his fingers ticklishly into his palm, until Thorin exclaimed aloud and twisted until he gripped the back of Bilbo's hand instead. And then refused to let him go, pressing his thumb lightly against the inside of Bilbo's wrist, curling his fingers into Bilbo's loose grasp.

"Come along, then," Bilbo said, exasperated, tugging Thorin along behind him and if he was a bit breathless, well, it had been quite a walk getting here.

end chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

The walk from the Eastfarthing wood seemed a great deal shorter on the way back, Bilbo decided, the scenery that had entranced him before was mentally set aside in favor of new company. Not that watching Frodo skip along the path had not been entertaining, no, Bilbo wasn't soon to tire of that.

More amusing, he decided, was seeing the lad propped on one broad Dwarven shoulder, carried ahead by Dwalin's long strides as the two of them warbled out a badly out of tune traveling song. Badly out of tune and quite _loudly_, as it were, and Bilbo could only offer apologetic smiles to those Hobbits still working outside in the late afternoon sun. A traveling chorus they would never be.

It was not the sort a thing he would have suspected of Dwalin, truth be told. If he'd been asked before their second arrival at his doorway, before Frodo, he might have said Dwalin reminded him a bit of the dogs the Hobbits that lived on the edges of the Shire kept, guard dogs nearly the size of a Hobbit, fierce things, and who could blame those living on the outskirts for wanting a bit of protection.

He thought he would have been quite right with the comparison both then and now, only more so for those fierce dogs guarded their families ferociously…and as Bilbo had seen once or twice in his visits, adored their children, rolling about with them like playful puppies.

He hadn't expected that of Dwalin, to be sure, would have been hard pressed to believe that one day seeing Frodo laughing happily as he was tickled by Dwalin's large fingers would be a common sight. That finding him asleep with a clutter of little Hobbits would be adorable and not disconcerting and that he would take it upon himself to plot a kitchen raid with those same little hobbits, taking the time to outfit them appropriately, to teach them Dwarven battle cries.

Ahead of him, Frodo was riding atop Dwalin's shoulders as though he were a particularly odd-shaped pony, clutching his bald head with two tiny hands and singing at the top of his little lungs. One remarkably badly-hit note made Bilbo wince and he could only hope the child improved with age. Not that it seemed to have helped Dwalin, whose caterwauling would have been right at home in the stables, crooning alongside a laboring cow.

His ears were soothed by Thorin humming along quietly beside him, his tone absent as though he could not resist attempting to counterbalance the cacophony that was the wayward souls before them. His hand was still twined with Bilbo's, swinging lightly between them and there was another bit of unexpectedness, that Dwalin hadn't seen fit to add a sly comment or two about that.

Dwalin had not even seemed to notice when he and Frodo had been collected from the other glen. He'd simply gathered up axes and child alike, scooping the latter up on his shoulders and carrying the former, his weapons held like familiar friends as he made his way to the path, Bilbo and Thorin trailing along behind them.

Another sour note left Bilbo wincing and he wished wryly that Thorin would take it upon himself to sing a bit louder. In his mind, he imagined years from now there would be another young Hobbit lad dandling from his father's knee, begging to hear the tale of this very summer.

An old gaffer with pipe in mouth, telling his child, "Aye, I remember that summer, my son. T'was a lovely day, the sun high and hot, and then...it came. A sound of the likes you'd never heard, like driving an pick through the eardrum it was!

"My da heard it coming first. I saw him fall to his knees, his hands over his ears but I was too late. It struck me before I could run and I fell to it as well! We might have perished there, right in the fields amongst the tomatoes and cabbages, and then...it came. Like the song of an angel it was, carrying away that awful din and my da and I were able to rise again, and carry on!

"To this day, on the first day of summer we leave an offering to the voice, a mug of ale to quench their thirst. And we leave a plate of cookies to appease the evil one lest he might raise his voice and bring our agony yet again!"

Another curdled note interrupted his fanciful thoughts and as if granting Bilbo's very wish, Thorin raised his own voice, rich tones curving around words that spoke of long paths winding home. A bit hesitantly, Bilbo joined him and though he was no great vocalist, their voices twined well enough. At least Thorin seemed to think so, a smile tilting his mouth as he dropped into a harmony and he gave Bilbo's hand a gentle squeeze.

What a sight they must make, traveling through the farmland and homes of Hobbiton, singing like a troop of fools. Two Hobbits with their bodyguards, the whole lot of them on their way to Bag End… which was probably right where everyone would have expected them to end their journey.

The dishes were still waiting patiently on the table when they arrived home and Bilbo loftily ignored Thorin's raised eyebrow at the sight. It was hardly his fault they'd taken it upon themselves to walk all the way to the Eastfarthing woods to play their little battle games and left the two Hobbits to follow along behind.

Still, he drew the line at Thorin starting to carry said dishes into Bilbo's kitchen while he was still dressed in his full armor, Orcrist strapped to his back, and where had he been when the cookie brigands had invaded?

"No, no, no," Bilbo scolded, rescuing plates and cups from Thorin and shooing him back towards the guest rooms. "Get yourself cleaned up at the very least before worrying about the dishes! And bring me out anything that needs washing; Bell Gamgee will be along for the laundry tomorrow."

So chastened, Thorin obeyed, though his smile was more amused than obedient. Frodo had already vanished along with Dwalin and Bilbo could hear his curious voice coming from the opened guestroom door as he questioned Dwalin about each piece of his equipment, from axes to his hand guards. Dwalin's voice was little more than a low rumble, the words indiscernible but Bilbo could guess that he was answering each question with patience, probably even enthusiasm as he described the various things he'd smited over the years.

If he gave that boy nightmares, then Dwalin had best be prepared to sit up with the lad and give any monsters the boot.

The few dishes were quickly washed and wiped, and Bilbo was contemplating a quick meal before they dressed for the party when timid knock at the door came.

"Who on earth could that be," Bilbo muttered to himself, wiping his hands on a towel before walking over to answer it. More curious tea-seekers, he wouldn't wonder, or perhaps more of the local children eager for a glimpse of the fabled Dwarves.

To his surprise, it was neither. On his front stoop, several large, carefully wrapped parcels stacked in his arms, was Ferdinand, his brown eyes peering anxiously over the topmost package.

"Your merchandise, Master Baggins, sir," Ferdinand said, youthful voice cracking and the packages wobbled ominously. Oh, gracious, how had he manage to forget already that Mungo had promised to deliver the clothing today?

"Here now, let me help you," Bilbo exclaimed, catching up the top two packages before they could fall to the ground. It seemed like far too many for only a shirt and trousers, and perhaps a few underthings, Bilbo thought suspiciously, a suspicion that Ferdinand quickly confirmed, setting the last package on the ground and popping the twine.

"My master thought perhaps you'd care to see another in a similar style?" Ferdinand said smoothly, masterfully drawing up a swathe of fabric with a confident flick of wrist that he had surely learned under Mungo's aggressive tutelage.

"I'm sure he did," Bilbo said, a touch dryly, and without an ounce of surprise. Mungo knew his patrons well and could be a surprisingly oily salesperson when the mood struck him. "But that will hardly…be…" He trailed off, blinking slowly, as Ferdinand draped a fine shirt over his arm. Cut very much like the one Bilbo had already purchased, this one a lovely, silken pewter that Bilbo could see would match well with Thorin's hair and eyes. Alongside it, Ferdinand laid one in a brilliant crimson and again, Bilbo could see in his mind's eye just how well the color would flatter.

Still folded in amongst the brown paper and twine, Bilbo could see what was likely two more sets of trousers of the same type as before, the ones that were quite tight on the thighs and calves. He looked back at the shirts, taking in the exquisitely done embroidery on each and honestly, when had Mungo found the time! Unless he kept a few extra seamstresses chained behind those curtained doorways then he and Ferdinand must have simply not slept the night before.

"I don't…" Bilbo began, weakly, noting that the pewter shirt laced up the front rather than using buttons and the crimson one included a black overtunic shot with silvery thread, "Much as I appreciate the…it's only…how much?" he finally asked with a sigh.

Ferdinand's smile was as genteelly smug as Mungo's could be; obviously the lad was a quick learner. "As an excellent customer, and one with such superb taste, my Master is prepared to offer you a discount, if you'd like to take the lot of it."

The price did not quite make Bilbo's eye twitch, though it was a close thing. "Your master is a rotten swindler and an overbearing taskmaster to boot," Bilbo grumbled and Ferdinand nodded graciously.

"Of course, sir," Ferdinand said serenely, "Will you be paying now or shall we add this to your account?"

"I'll pay you now," Bilbo sighed, "Let me get my purse."

"Certainly," Ferdinand's smile widened, his round face brightening in delight, and Bilbo wondered if an extra coin or two might end up tucked in the boy's back pocket. Well, Bilbo certainly wasn't about to tattle on the lad; he couldn't even begrudge him his salesmanship, a good sell was a worthy skill, after all.

The lad gathered up the last of the packages, handling them with practiced ease as he followed Bilbo back to the sitting room. He laid both shirts out carefully over the back of one chair so they mightn't get wrinkled. "And where would you like me to…set….these…" Ferdinand's voice trailed off in a low squeak and Bilbo looked up from his money purse to see the lad's brown eyes were wide enough that the whites were visible all 'round, his mouth open in a small 'o'.

Before he could ask, an absent voice came from behind him, "Bilbo, where did you wish us to set the laundry?"

Turning around was an exercise in dread and Bilbo forced himself to do it, catching sight of Thorin in the doorway. A great deal of Thorin, as it were, as he was shirtless, his damp hair pulled back at the nape of his neck in a low ponytail. Honestly, he'd seen Thorin missing clothing more often in the past few days than he had during the entirely of their journey to Erebor.

Only, on this particular occasion Thorin's expression turned to a dark scowl, glowering at something behind Bilbo and only then did he hear a high, thin sound emanating from behind him. From Ferdinand, his mouth still agape and his eyes threatening to leave their sockets and roll about loosely on the floor.

Oh, well, this was just a perfect addition to the day. Not only would people whisper about the Dwarves in his home, now they could gossip about the nearly naked Dwarves prancing about. To make matters worse, Thorin only scowled blackly at the lad, hands propped on his hips as he raised a defiant eyebrow as if to tell Ferdinand to make what he would of the sight, for Thorin Oakenshield was not about dive behind a door like a shrieking maiden.

For his part, Ferdinand did not seem as though gossip was at all on his mind. The thin, high sound leaking from his throat shifted to a low gurgle, his cheeks flushed high with color. For heaven's sake, Bilbo thought with exasperation, the boy worked for a tailor! Surely he saw half-dressed people all the time…or perhaps that was why he worked for a tailor, as Ferdinand did not seem offended. His gaze was more avid than appalled, taking in the sight of a shirtless Dwarf with glassy-eyed greed.

Unreasonably irritated, Bilbo shoved a few coins roughly at the lad, snapping out, "Thank you, I'll take care of things from here." Ferdinand's hands closed over the coins automatically, but his feet did not shift until Bilbo gave him a shove that bordered on rude. "Out with you! I'm sure I'll be making an appointment soon enough."

"Oh!" Ferdinand blinked, looking down at his hand in surprise as though he had no memory of taking any money at all. There was a fair chance Bilbo had accidentally given him too much, but he gave the boy no chance to count it, pushed him along until he stumbled towards the door. "But Mungo…my master wanted me to tell you he's also designing a new line of nightshirts that he thought you might appreciate—"

"No, thank you, good job on the quick delivery, well done on the clothing, and good afternoon!" Bilbo said in a long rush and before Ferdinand could add another word, he'd shut the front door firmly in the boy's face.

"What was that about?" Thorin asked and Bilbo yelped aloud, clutching at his heart. He'd not even heard Thorin following him, noticing a bit wildly that he was even in his bare feet, for goodness sake, and close enough to Bilbo that he could smell his fresh, soapy-clean scent. He'd been bathing, yes, just as he'd said he was going to and now he was wearing nothing but clean trousers and his own skin.

The floor seemed a safer choice at the moment and that was where Bilbo focused his gaze, his eyes lighting on Thorin's bare feet. His terribly bare feet as there were only downy-fine hairs on them, though they were stout and strong.

"Nothing," Bilbo said, wincing at the roughness in his voice. He cleared his throat, repeating, "Nothing at all. Ferdinand was only delivering your clothes."

"I see that," Thorin said with baffled curiosity, padding back to the sitting room. He lifted the crimson shirt from the back of the chair and held it up to his chest. "I don't recall seeing these this morning."

The crimson laid against pale skin made Bilbo swallow, hard, noting the way it complemented the dark hair, the ruddy tint of his lips and cheeks. Genius, indeed, and Bilbo made a note to decide later whether he should thank the old tailor profusely when next they met or make a point to spit in his tea.

Bilbo dropped his gaze back to the safety of the floor and bare feet. "Yes, well," he coughed, noting absently that one of Thorin's toes was slightly crooked, likely broken sometime in the past and not healed properly. He had a thin silver ring on another toe, a match to the one on his bicep and his hair clasps. Those toes wiggled, deliberately, and Bilbo blinked, jerking his eyes back up to find that curious gaze transferred from shirts to him, one dark brow raised as Thorin waiting patiently for an explanation.

In the face of that inquisitive eyebrow, Bilbo decided abruptly that his second option was the best choice and lied like a sinner, "They weren't finished quite yet," Bilbo said, smoothly. "I thought so long as I was commissioning one shirt, so long as it looked well enough you may as well have a few more."

To his relief, Thorin seemed to accept that, holding up the overtunic and laying across the crimson. Outside the beady eye of the tailor, Thorin seemed a great deal more appreciative, tracing the embroidery with a reverent finger and admiring the finely done cuffs and stitch work. Reared with an appreciation of a fine wardrobe, Thorin had told him, and he seemed as if he'd be happy enough for these as an addition to it.

"These are quite fine. You were right about that much," Thorin said, grudgingly, "He is very talented."

"He is," Bilbo agreed, and if his laugh was a touch breathless, Thorin did not seem to notice. "If you survive the meeting."

"Mmm," Thorin hummed noncommittally, though Bilbo didn't wonder that he was thinking perhaps Mungo was the lucky survivor. "Well, you've sought to clothe me and spent a good penny doing so by my guess. What shall I wear, then?"

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked, blankly.

"To the party," Thorin clarified, his mouth tipping up in a smirk and gracious, did he have to smile like that standing there in those bare feet and – "What should I wear to the party?"

"The blue," Bilbo blurted out without his permission and he only just kept from clapping a hand over his recalcitrant mouth in horror. Honestly, he did not even have to think about it. Lovely as the other two were, it was the blue his mind wandered over, his memory of the sight of Thorin in the firelight, the way it drew out his eyes, brightening their rich color, the way his braids had lain against the fine cloth and the silvery clasps tipping them gleaming.

"Do you think it will be dark enough for it?" Thorin asked, wryly and Bilbo only nodded dumbly before catching it, cursing himself for a fool. Here he was, staring at his friend worse than Ferdinand and he did not even have the excuse of youth!

"You'll look fine," Bilbo assured him, then bit his lip. "Only, your boots, I don't think that—"

"I have a pair of boots that will suit," Thorin told him and it was most unkingly the way he rolled his eyes. "As well as shirts and trousers and anything else your tailor thought to add. I told you I had others. Dwalin could well assure you that when the opportunity presents, I do not pack lightly."

"I'm quite sure none of your shirts are like those," Bilbo dared and Thorin laughed aloud.

"They most assuredly are not." Thorin held the pewter shirt up against his chest and Bilbo swallowed down any other words that struggled to spill out, perchance ones begging Thorin to try that one on, and the trousers as well. To check the fit, of course; even Mungo had the slimmest chance of making a mistake from time to time.

Sadly, it was not to be. Thorin only laid the shirt back down and Bilbo sighed to himself, then choked on his own breath as he was abruptly caught up in a hug, strong arms around him, pulling him against a bare chest. "Thank you," Thorin said, low, "I'm aware the cost means little to either of us, but the gesture is much appreciated."

Oh, that was a terrible amount of nakedness to be pressed against. His cheek was tight against lovely, warm skin, the curly hair rubbing silkily, tickling his nose. Thorin smelled clean, of Bilbo's own soap that hinted of oatmeal and lavender and yet, beneath it was that same richness, the one that Bilbo was quickly coming to associate with Thorin. Somehow, his own hands had wandered up and were currently resting on the swathes of bare skin at his back, fingertips brushing the waistband of Thorin's trousers.

"You're welcome," Bilbo said, his squeak hardly louder than Ferdinand's had been. He was not drawing in deep breathes through his nose, Bilbo told himself, he wasn't, it was only…Thorin was squeezing him quite tightly, that was it. One arm was at the back of his neck, something hard and cool pressing against him. Thorin's silver armband, Bilbo decided, and a bearded chin was resting on Bilbo's head, his breath tousling curls.

It was…he should move away, Bilbo decided, swallowing against a suddenly dry mouth. Shifting his head only seemed to push his nose in tighter and he could inhale that rich scent, if he wanted, he could bury his face in those silky curls and if he opened his mouth, he could—

"You're welcome!" Bilbo blurted, loudly, squirming away and he felt Thorin startle, his hands slipping loose as Bilbo scrambled back, very nearly bashing his head into Thorin's face in his haste. Quickly, Bilbo busied himself opening the other packages that Ferdinand had left; best to do it now before anything was wrinkled and spare himself the ironing. "And, the blue, yes, I believe. Blue, I mean, the blue shirt. That would be best, don't you think?"

"If you like," Thorin said, slowly. Reluctantly, Bilbo glanced at him but Thorin only seemed interested in the packages Bilbo was opening. "I should hang them up before they crease."

"I'll do it," Bilbo said, latching on to the idea gratefully. Goodness, he'd very nearly made a fool of himself, hadn't he. It was only luck that Thorin didn't seem to have noticed, blessed luck that he hadn't ruined their friendship with his odd imaginings. Deep blue emerged from within the brown paper packaging and Bilbo seized it up, thrusting it into Thorin's arms along with the trousers and the underthings that went along with it, though the silken feel of those in his hands drew a hot, miserable flush to his cheeks. "Go on and dress, then, and we'll be off soon enough!"

And perhaps he wasn't quite as lucky as he'd hoped, for Thorin only stood a long moment, brow creased as he studied Bilbo's flustered face. It was a relief when he finally nodded, silently, and turned away, his bare feet hushed on the floor as he walked back to the guest room. Bilbo tried to swallow away the dryness in his mouth again, the click of his throat audible as he took in the bare, long ridge of Thorin's spine, the way his trousers sat low on his hips, cupping the firmness of his backside beneath rough fabric.

_Oh, I'm in a terrible amount of trouble_, Bilbo thought, a bit wildly, and he clutched the shirts beneath his hands so tightly that he was forced to heat his iron after all.

* * *

><p>end chapter 11<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

By the time he'd finished in the kitchen, Bilbo had calmed himself somewhat. Dusting crumbs from his tabletop and putting away the last of the clean dishes set his mind back to rights and it was rather easy to dismiss his former ridiculousness. After all, while he was not known for indulging often in the pleasures of the flesh, he was hardly dead and Bilbo suspected there might even be a corpse or two who wouldn't be unaffected by having Thorin hug them while shirtless.

Therefore, he could be easily forgiven for his own…affectedness. Yes, Bilbo decided, the blame could be set firmly on the fact of too much bare skin and not enough distance and that was all there was to it. There would hardly be another chance for such a thing, Bilbo was sure, and so it would be best to just dismiss the entire incident. He had an appreciation for fine things and Thorin was certainly fine to look at. Nothing more.

Already, he could see the shadows lengthening outside, the light pouring in through his kitchen window taking on a ruddy tint and Bilbo hastened to gather Frodo up to dress him for the party. The lad was equal parts eager and reluctant; eager for there was hardly a Hobbit in the Shire who didn't enjoy a good party and Frodo was no exception and reluctant for Dwalin had just been in the middle of telling him a decidedly horrific and bloody tale about being beset by a roving pack of wolves during his travels.

Bilbo stepped into the guest room just as Dwalin told a wide-eyed Frodo, "…and so I beheaded the beast with one blow just as another leapt at me from atop a boulder, a large, silver-coated monster it was, and—"

"And that's enough of that, I think!" Bilbo said, loudly, drowning out whatever gruesome injury had been dealt to any wolf foolish enough to attempt making Dwalin into a meal. The way Dwalin imitated the swinging an axe at an imaginary wolf was enough to give Bilbo a grimace. Frodo was currently staring at Dwalin with wide, worshipful eyes, though Bilbo didn't wonder if that wouldn't change in the darkness of night, when the lad was alone with an open closet door and bed that might conceal nighttime terrors beneath it.

"Uncle Bilbo, he was just getting to the good part!" Frodo complained, though he hopped down from the bed willingly enough, trotting over to the door.

"I'm quite sure he was," Bilbo agreed dryly, glaring at Dwalin, who only shrugged unconcernedly, casting a wink at the boy that promised further tales and likely nightmares in the future.

Frodo at least was easily tidied, his round face scrubbed clean, his hair neatly combed and his feet brushed. His shirtsleeves, which had been the barest fraction too short the week before were now visibly riding up on his wrists and Bilbo could only frown at them, buttoning Frodo into his little waistcoat. The boy stood with remarkable patience as Bilbo fussed, and that alone drew a helpless smile to Bilbo's face. Frodo was growing quite accustomed to Bilbo's fussiness and took it as a given, though his neatly combed hair was already straggling back into disheveled curls.

"I suppose this is as good as you're going to get!" Bilbo told him, tweaking Frodo's nose. The lad giggled, sitting on the bed with his feet dangling as he watched Bilbo change his shirt, buttoning into his own waistcoat.

"Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin are coming, aren't they?" Frodo asked, anxiously, fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve.

"Never you fear, my lad, they were invited as well," Bilbo said with a laugh. Though his humor was quickly sent to a frown as he took in his reflection; somehow, this outfit, long a favorite of his, seemed oddly dull tonight.

He stripped it off and cast it on the bed, hunting through his closet for something more appealing. If only he'd known he'd be going to a party this week, he would have commissioned a new outfit of his own to go along with…well, with Thorin's. Thorin was wearing blue, so wouldn't it only make sense if Bilbo wore something to go along with that? They were all of them going to the party together and by whatever lucky coincident, Frodo's best was also a lovely shade of blue, chosen to match his eyes.

All of them would be a fine match in blue, Bilbo decided, shuffling through his tidy collection for something that would suit. He had half an ear listening to Frodo's eager prattle, only pausing when he heard the boy say, happily. "…and it'll be lots of fun! I love Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin, I always want them to come along."

It made him pause, biting his lip as he turned to look at Frodo's small, happy face. At times like these it was easy to forget certain facts, things like what Frodo had lost not so long ago and how tightly he clung to that which he still had. Things like the fact that Thorin and Dwalin could not possibly be staying for much longer, something Bilbo had allowed himself to forget, had he not? Even if they stayed another week, a month, even if they stayed that long, eventually they would be leaving Hobbiton, leaving them, possibly never to return, and Frodo would be losing someone else he'd come to care for.

"Frodo—" Bilbo began, hesitantly, searching for words that would not come for how could he possibly explain that it would not be a lack of love that took them away, only an overabundance of responsibility.

His door bursting open took the choice from him, Dwalin tromping in without so much as a by your leave. Bilbo squawked loudly and snatched up his dressing gown, skinning into it quickly. Perhaps Dwarves had no issue in wandering around nearly in their altogether but Bilbo didn't care to put on a show for much of anyone and certainly not Dwalin.

"Enough of your imprisonment!" Dwalin announced loudly, scooping Frodo up even as the boy squealed happily, scrambling up to sit on one broad shoulder with practiced ease, sending his hair straight back into the realm of untidy. "You're done with the lad and I've a story to finish. Get on with your primping and let's see this done, aye?"

He didn't wait for Bilbo to finish sputtering, much less offer a protest, only tromped back out much the same way he arrived, slamming the door behind him. Bilbo stood for a long moment, torn between irritation at the theft and relief that he'd been spared from speaking to Frodo about his friend's inevitable departure, for at least a time. Surely there was no need to upset him before the party, was there? They'd talk tomorrow, perhaps, and while there would certainly be tears, it would be best to prepare Frodo for it now.

Bilbo ignored the hollow ache in his own chest, rubbing it absently as he looked through his closet for something that would suit, despairing at his lack of options even with a room entirely dedicated to clothing. In the end, he chose a white linen shirt and paired it with a fine maize waistcoat, leaving the deep blue to his jacket and ascot. Each was a creation of Mungo's so each was made of the finest fabric, their stitching neat and their fit perfection; for all that the tailor had a temper Bilbo could hardly think of trusting his wardrobe to another. Even if the sly, old cheat was a burden on his pocketbook.

Searching for just the right trousers sent his hands brushing over another sleeve of blue and Bilbo drew it free carefully, the ragged sleeves and stains visible even in the dimly lit closet.

"Oh," Bilbo said, quietly, for this week seemed determined to assault him with memories. Of Lake-town and being forced into children's clothing for lack of options and this particular shabby coat was more suited to the dustbin than his closet and yet…the stains had never come out of it, ground in with dirt and with blood that was not entirely Bilbo's own. He'd carried it home with him to Hobbiton, along with a map and a chest of Troll gold, and he had little more left of his adventures than what few things he'd brought back and his memories.

His fingers trembled as he traced one ragged tear, the edges limned with rusty stains. Just those memories and now those of the past week, a different sort of adventure, he supposed but one that still included Dwarves and—

A hard pounding on his door startled him from his musing, that and Dwalin bellowing through it, "Are you sewing the clothes yourself? Stick your legs in your trousers and let's be off!"

"A moment, please, if you would!" Bilbo snapped back, though he hung the old blue jacket back up carefully. He made quick work of buttoning his jacket and knotting on his ascot, a paler blue than the coat, before taking in his reflection. Better, he decided, very smart and hardly as dull as his last choice. Though his waistband gave him a bit of a frown, the buttons on his waistcoat not-quite straining, an indication that he had been seating himself at the kitchen table more often than he'd been on any walking holidays as of late.

Not that he was trying to impress anyone with his girth or lack thereof, ridiculous, he could name ten Hobbits in less than a minute that were nearly as wide as they were tall and—"Stop it," Bilbo told himself, firmly, brushing his feet determinedly. This was Pearl's birthday party and her day, and even the gossips could find no fault in this outfit, nor Mungo, nor anyone else, and his waistline was no concern of anyone's, surely.

A last jaundiced glance at the mirror and Bilbo called himself ready to go. To a party with his band of…well, Bilbo chuckled to himself as he stepped into the front sitting room and found Dwalin dangling Frodo by his ankles while the boy chortled and squirmed, his hair thoroughly ruined and his shirt untucked and rumpled, bracers dangling. They both froze at his appearance, Frodo's upside-down face contrite and Dwalin's mulish.

"Hand him over," Bilbo said, firmly, sighing in exasperation as Dwalin righted the child and set him on his feet. "Five minutes," Bilbo muttered, straightening his shirt and patting his hair back into place. "Five minutes and you've already ruined him—are you wearing that?"

That consisted of Dwalin's full complement of armor, both his axes strapped to his back, and even his hand guards were buckled into place. He was dressed as if he were stepping out Bilbo's front door into a battle and from his fierce scowl, Bilbo suspected that in Dwalin's opinion, it was not far off.

"Never mind, never mind!" Bilbo snapped out before Dwalin could growl out what was surely a succinct explanation, probably little more than a gruff, 'Aye!'. At least his shirt was clean enough. Between battle-ready Dwalin and thoroughly-tousled Frodo, their merrie band o' fools was still shy a member. "Where is Thorin?"

"Oh, his Highness is still prettying himself up," Dwalin snorted, flopping back into one of the armchairs with enough force that the wood groaned threateningly. "He'll be along in a moment."

A prediction well-spoken, for the last word had hardly fallen before Bilbo heard the heavy tread of boots and Thorin stepped into the sitting room. The blue shirt and tunic were as superb as Bilbo remembered, the trousers clinging to strong thighs and calves, only Thorin had paired to them a heavy belt with a fine, silver buckle, free of jewels as Mungo had suggested but hardly plain for all that, wrought with intricate scrolls and delicate etchings. His boots were a match, polished leather and silver buckles, and the toes each capped with a silver plate whose carvings matched the belt.

Bilbo caught his breath, mumbling out a soft, "Oh, you…" Whatever else he'd meant to say was lost, trailing into silence as he took in the fact that Thorin had redone his braids, threading the tips with aglets to match the rest and drawn back the thick fall of hair from his face, binding it high on his head with a heavy silver clasp and allowing the rest of it to spill over his shoulders in a familiar silver-streaked fall.

He was…he was fine to look at, Bilbo reminded himself, an elegant picture of silver and blue, and it was expected that Bilbo would be affected, who wouldn't be affected by such a sight, only a fool or—

"You aren't wearing that," Dwalin said behind him, flatly.

Bilbo swung around to gape at him, aghast, "What are you on about, he looks very smart!"

Thorin merely raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest and Bilbo swore the temperature of the room sank lower as Thorin spoke, his voice a low growl, "I don't recall asking your opinion."

"Aye, but I am offering it!" Dwalin snarled back, rising to his feet and matching Thorin's glower with his own. "I went along with you leaving off the armor and not carrying your sword, on account that you could probably best any of the folk here with a sharp word and a fingertip but I'll not stand by while you tart yourself up in that!"

"Tart himself…!" Bilbo spluttered, offended on behalf of tailors everywhere that such dress could be called anything so crass. To his dismay, Frodo mouthed the words, his little brow creased and he had no doubt that phrase would be entering the vocabulary of any number of children by the morrow, to the consternation of all the parents of Hobbiton.

"Aye, tart himself!" Dwalin shouted, gesturing wildly, at Thorin as a whole, from boots to his nose, "This is your idea of a shirt, is it?"

"Now, I know the color seems a bit…vibrant at the moment," Bilbo allowed, though in truth he thought no such thing, the richness of the blue was well-revealed in the firelight but what else could be causing Dwalin such upset?

Dwalin only looked confused. "The color? It's all gray to me, lad," he dismissed it. "I mean this." He reached out and hooked a fingertip into the neckline, tugging at the deep vee in it roughly before Thorin struck his hand away with a scowl.

"Are you colorblind?" Bilbo asked, startled. Perhaps that would explain why Dwalin was so terrible at puzzles.

Both Dwarves ignored him, Thorin with increasing amusement and Dwalin in deeper agitation, pacing away from Thorin as he grumbled beneath his breath.

"There is nothing wrong with this outfit," Thorin said, propping his hands on his hips and if anything, it only gave an even more blatant display, one that sent Bilbo to lean weakly against the wall, watching the two of them quarrel like dogs, though one of them was a more a mangy stray and the other, a fiercely groomed protector of home and hearth.

"That is not an outfit, it is an advertisement," Dwalin hissed, "Though I dare not guess at what in this company!"

"Dwalin!" Bilbo scolded at last, for Thorin only seemed ready to burst with mirth and Frodo was watching the unfolding drama with avid interest, probably hoping for any new enhancements to his vocabulary. "I'm sure I don't know what you're on about, so if you would care to explain before we spent the entire night here in the sitting room?"

It was Thorin who chanced to explain, smirking as he told Bilbo, "What Dwalin is saying with his usual charm is that amongst my people, it's quite...shall we say daring to bare your throat."

"Daring?" Bilbo blinked, eyes drifting lower as Thorin chose that moment to demonstrate, running a broad finger along the neckline of the shirt and tracing the bared hollows and ridges it exposed. "It's a collarbone, I wouldn't compare it to cleavage."

"Aye, _you_ wouldn't," Dwalin agreed, shortly. "To our people, Thorin is showing all and sundry the best place to put a knife."

"Oh!" Bilbo covered his mouth with a hand, appalled. Lovely as the shirt was, as were the other two, he'd given no consideration to any cultural differences and he could only wonder at what Thorin had thought when he'd first seen them. "Oh, I had no idea, you should have said. Mungo is...er...temperamental, but I'm sure he would have understood that!"

Thorin was already shaking his head, and Dwalin snorted loudly, "No, lad, you misunderstand. Trusting folk enough to show them your throat is a compliment and not one often given." He offered Thorin another glare, "Nor should it."

"Well, I..." Bilbo swallowed, unaccountably nervous. "Thank you for your trust."

"I've trusted you with my life for a long time," Thorin said, quietly, his gaze steady and it was Bilbo who finally looked away, straightening his shirt cuffs and swallowing away the rising thickness in his throat.

"_Him_, yes!" Dwalin snapped out in his own rough exasperation, "Thorin, I swear on my father's own grave, I'll not—"

"It's only a party, Dwalin," Thorin soothed, for once laying aside the bite of his humor, "A birthday party of little Hobbits and Bilbo's kin. I'm quite sure I'm safe from assassination attempts here."

"Assassination attempts?" Bilbo whispered, low, and did not repeat it as Thorin laid a hand on Dwalin's shoulder and drew him down to lightly bump their foreheads, even as the larger Dwarf sighed gustily.

"Fine, then," Dwalin grumbled. "Let's be off and on your head be it!"

"If I am murdered, it's your head that it will fall on as mine will no longer be filled with such concerns," Thorin said, cheekily and he turned away as Dwalin growled out a low curse, offering a smile to Bilbo, "Shall we be off, then?"

"That would be best, I think," Bilbo said, weakly, and did not ask about assassination attempts. "There's fashionably late and then there is rude. We'd do better to try for the first."

* * *

><p>The night lanterns were already lit as they stepped outside, scattered across the landscape and sharing the warmth of their glow. Already the heat of the day was receding to comfortable nighttime coolness and along the paths others were walking, the low murmur of conversation and laughter surrounding them as all those invited made their way to the party tree.<p>

The path was a narrow one and Dwalin was two steps ahead, carrying Frodo as was his custom and whatever they were discussing was making the lad giggle wildly, bouncing on his perch though Bilbo struggled not to cringe at the sight of the child sitting so closely to those axes. Dwalin would cut off his own hand before allowing Frodo to be hurt, Bilbo told himself, and he knew it to be true, though the knowledge did not make the sight easier to bear. Of course, once his kin saw that, alongside the state of Frodo's clothes and hair, he might have to have to pack his getaway bag for the two of them this very night.

Next to him, Thorin walked along and if he was dismayed that Bilbo did not take up his hand as had become their habit, he did not say, nor did he move to catch Bilbo's hand on his own. Propriety should be respected, of course; it was one thing to walk the little paths and hills of Hobbiton in the broad daylight hand in hand as good friends; in the night Bilbo supposed that such a thing could take on an entirely different tone. Still, his hand seemed to itch for fingers between his own, so much so that Bilbo clenched it into a fist to keep himself from reaching out.

The path was narrow, though, so it was quite reasonable that they should walk as closely as they did and if his arm brushed Thorin's on occasion, it was only to be expected. The pathways were made for Hobbits to walk side by side; Dwarves took up a bit more than their fair share of it. One such brush of arms was very nearly a hearty bump and Bilbo stumbled, nearly falling and that would have sorely tested his already tried temper this night.

A strong hand caught his arm before he could tumble down, steadying him, and Bilbo thanked Thorin absently, raising his head to find the Dwarf smiling down at him wryly. "You needn't thank me when I was the one who almost sent you to the ground."

"Yes, well," Bilbo began, a touch hoarsely for Thorin had yet to release his arm and his face was terribly close to Bilbo's as he leaned down, close enough that he could feel the warmth of his breath. Bilbo coughed, drawing slightly away and ducking his head, and he did not sigh when Thorin drew away his hand. The sound he made was slightly less dignified than a simple sigh when that hand settled instead between his shoulders as though to guide him along.

"Try not to fall," Thorin told him, and the laugh in his voice made Bilbo give him a haughty look, frowning up into amused eyes.

"I'm sure I'll manage," Bilbo told him, struggling for a smooth tone though he suspected he managed something closer to strangled. The warmth of Thorin's hand was bleeding through his shirt and coat both, a gentle pressure herding him along like a shepherd with his curly-haired little sheep. Not that he particularly trusted Thorin to guide him; at his direction they'd likely end up at a celebration at Rivendell before ever finding the party tree.

"Thorin," A low voice from the dimness caught Bilbo's attention and to his surprise, Bilbo saw that Dwalin and Frodo had not gone ahead and instead were waiting only a few feet away, a firm scowl in place on Dwalin's face.

"Yes, yes," Thorin said impatiently, gently pushing Bilbo alongside him, "I'm not about to perish if you let me out of your sight for a moment, Dwalin, no matter what I'm wearing."

"Aye," Dwalin sighed, his lips twitching into sullen humor. "Tis a habit, I suppose."

"And one I well appreciate but now I think we are late to a party," Thorin said and Bilbo nodded a hasty agreement, putting his foot forward and trailing behind Dwalin, whom he at least trusted to find the tree.

The hand resting lightly on his back stirred as they walked, straying up to his collar and Thorin fingered the cloth, likely straightening it, though Bilbo shivered as fingertips grazed the nape of his neck, brushing at the edge of his hair. It withdrew with a sense of reluctance as the tree came into view, as well as the crowd of Hobbits beneath it.

Bright lanterns were scattered about, casting cheery light and already music filled the air, along with the savory scent of good food and Bilbo knew he saw Dwalin's nose twitch as he caught that aroma. Happy laughter and chatter came from all directions and Bilbo smiled, his belly eager for food and a foot already tapping along to the music. A drink wouldn't be amiss either and Frodo was already squirming loose from Dwalin, calling eagerly to his little friends who shouted for him to join them.

Dwalin allowed him to escape with a frown, his eyes flicking between Thorin and Frodo as though struggling with a choice and Bilbo was not at all surprised when he remained where he was, close to Thorin's side. Perhaps he should be offended that Dwalin seemed to think his neighbors and kinfolk had a bloodthirsty intent where Dwarves were concerned and yet, instead he only felt a faintly warmed that Dwalin would be so. A long-held habit, Dwalin had said, and Bilbo knew it to be true.

Perhaps when he saw that the only place a Hobbit cared to put a knife was on a plate of food he might relax some.

"Bilbo!" His name rose up through the crowd. Bilbo turned to follow it and found Eglantine waving to him. He waved back and made his way through the crowd to her. She was lovely in her way, her dress a faintly scandalous shade of a red for her age, not that Eglantine Took would ever pay mind to such a thing. Her ever-present pipe was clenched between her teeth, twin streams of smoke trailing from her nostrils as Eglantine smoked it briskly as though the pipeweed were her only hold to sanity. Considering the crowd around her and her hatred of playing hostess, Bilbo suspected perhaps it was.

"Good to see you, all of you," Eglantine nodded politely to them each in turn, her gaze barely flickering as she took in the Dwarves. "Pearl, do greet your Cousin Bilbo and his guests, won't you?"

Pearl stepped forward, a lovely young one in her own right, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her dress was a lovely as one might expect for a coming of age birthday, Mungo's work, Bilbo noted with a shrewd eye, never let it be said that Eglantine neglected her children's wants and needs.

Her smile was a trifle confused but warmly polite as she gave a neat curtsy to Bilbo, though her eyes were straying to the Dwarves as she said, "Good evening, thank you so much for coming."

To Bilbo's surprise, before he could say a word of greeting or otherwise, Thorin stepped forward and took Pearl's hand in a gentle grip.

"It's an honor," Thorin said, bowing over her hand as though she were the finest of Queens and not a sweet country Hobbit. "The welcome of you and your kinsfolk has been most appreciated by me and mine. Our travels were long and to be amongst your people is soothing to the spirit, to be sure."

Pearl blushed to the roots of her mousy brown hair, stammering out a breathless, "You…you're quite welcome, of course! I…my mother tells me that you're staying at Bag End with Cousin Bilbo?"

"We are," Thorin said gravely, loosening his hold on Pearl's hand though it took her a moment to remember to retrieve it.

"Yes, they are," Bilbo spoke up, and if he was a bit louder than was necessary, well, he did need to be heard over the crowd. "This is Thorin and this other fellow is Dwalin, friends of mine the both of them. Your mother thought they might enjoy attending the party."

Dwalin's grimace was not exactly a friendly greeting but Bilbo thought, rather uncharitably, that Thorin's smile was entirely too warm for a person he'd only just met. Pearl hardly even noticed Dwalin; her wide eyes were on Thorin alone, gaping at him as if she'd never seen anything like a Dwarf in her life, which was utterly ridiculous. Dwarves were hardly that uncommon a sight, hardly a myth from a fairytale.

"And we are pleased to attend such a momentous event for you," Thorin added, as if Bilbo needed any assistance in talking to his own kin! To his horror, Thorin went on, "I'm aware that it is the tradition of your people to give gifts on the day of your birth. I hoped that you would indulge me in a tradition of mine and accept one from me."

Bilbo nearly put a stop to that, already reaching out to protest only to yelp instead as a sharp kick caught him in the shin. He scowled fiercely back at Dwalin who only gazed back innocently, nodding at the couple before them.

Thorin had already handed Pearl a small package and she opened it curiously to find a pendant inside. It was lovely, thin golden loops in the shape of a flower and a small polished stone in the middle. Not a gem, Bilbo saw with some relief, but still, an extravagant gift and so of course it was terribly inappropriate for an unmarried male to give to a young lady who had just come of age.

"Ohh," Pearl breathed, draping the thin chain over her fingers as she held it up. It sparkled in the light, the gold a brilliant glimmer against her pale fingers. As if realizing just what she was doing, Pearl clutched the small pendant to her chest, her mouth snapping shut as she cast a pleading look at her mother, who took her pipe from her mouth long enough to sigh and nod. "Oh, thank you!" she gushed.

"You're quite welcome," Thorin assured her, bowing again and Bilbo fought back a sneer, wondering just how often Thorin had practiced that to ensure his hair draped forward in such a fetching manner. "And thank you for indulging me in the traditions of my people."

"Yes, yes, of course," Pearl babbled and honestly, it was all terribly unseemly. She held it up with trembling fingers, her eyes faintly damp as she struggled with the chain. Thorin, who had somehow become more of a gentleman in the past five minutes than he had been in all the time Bilbo had known him, carefully took it and neatly fastened it for her as Pearl held her hair out of the way.

It really was a lovely little pendant, Bilbo noted grudgingly. The stone was a milky white piece of quartz polished to a high gloss and the thin golden wires looping around it gave the illusion of a daisy. Strung on a simple golden chain, it nestled at Pearl's throat as she proudly showed her gift to any and all around, as though Thorin had chosen to make it just for her.

"Yes, yes, it's quite lovely," Bilbo muttered in his turn. Not that Pearl stopped to listen to what her odd, old cousin Bilbo had to say about matters. Instead, she basked in the envious looks of her friends and age mates, stopping at proper intervals to thank Thorin again several times, with entirely too much enthusiasm, in Bilbo's opinion. It was only a silly little necklace.

"Well, we don't wish to take up all your time—" Bilbo began, trailing off in horror as Pearl chose that moment to throw her arms around Thorin's neck and hug him fiercely. Worse still, after a moment of startled hesitation, Thorin hugged her back before setting her on her feet. "All right, then!" Bilbo snapped loudly and that caught him a bit of attention from everyone except Pearl, who had already darted away to show off her necklace to a few new arrivals.

A puff of smoke caught Bilbo in the face and he coughed, waving it away before casting his glare on Eglantine, who offered him a smirk in return. "I believe Esmeralda was right," she told him, drolly, "This will be quite entertaining. Do enjoy the party, Bilbo, you and your guests both. And stop by Lobelia's table and give her nose a tweak, won't you?" she added, puffing on her pipe again, "Esmeralda does make a good Sunday pudding; you may as well take a chance and earn a few."

"You—" Bilbo began, turning a bit wildly to find Thorin already overtaken by a group of Pearl's young friends, answering their jabbering questions with surprising patience and a frankly astounding amount of charm.

An elbow nudged him and Bilbo did not even think before he shoved back with a rough elbow of his own, sourly pleased at Dwalin's grunt of surprise. "He does have a way about him, doesn't he," Dwalin said, though he only seemed amused by it, mouth twisting as the girls tittered and cooed their daft little heads off.

"I suppose you could call it that. Aren't you afraid one of them will jab a hat pin into his heart?" Bilbo muttered irritably, his mood only souring further as Thorin's deep laugh rose over the chattering of the ninnies surrounding him.

"Oh, aye," Dwalin said agreeably, "They seem a dangerous bunch. Why not rescue his Highness, before one of those ones shows their murderous intent?"

Bilbo very nearly retorted that Thorin didn't seem as though he'd care for a rescue and he might have stormed off to the buffet table and left his Highness to his fate. If not for Thorin's eye catching his own and Bilbo halted mid-step, reading the desperation in that gaze as easily as he might a book, pleading with him for the very rescue Dwalin had suggested.

He very nearly left Thorin anyway; the buffet table probably had sesame cake and it had hardly been Bilbo's idea to give Pearl a highly inappropriate and most unnecessary present in front of this lot. In the end, though, Bilbo relented, wading through the sea of skirts and giggles to Thorin and threading their arms together.

"Excuse us, won't you, ladies," Bilbo said firmly. "My good friend and I need a word." He ignored their pleading protests and giggly sighs, leading Thorin back through their clutches to the relative safety of the dinner tables. There, he pushed Thorin into a chair, taking in his dazed expression doubtfully. "Are you all right?"

"Yes?" Thorin replied, uncertainly, and Bilbo snorted, giving Dwalin a nudge.

"Get his Highness a pint, won't you?" Bilbo told him, kicking him in the shin when Dwalin only frowned. Likely he only bruised his own toes, but hitting Dwalin in any way was satisfying nonetheless. "I'll keep him safe from the unsavory sort and their hat pins while you're gone."

When Dwalin had taken his grumbling self away, Bilbo sat next to Thorin, propping his chin on his hand as Thorin blinked and said, a touch acidly, "I didn't realize you were in the habit carrying around ladies' jewelry."

That caught his attention and instead, Thorin chose to blink at him instead of into the blankness of night, "I'm not," Thorin said, almost absently. "I made it this afternoon."

That took Bilbo aback, "You made it?"

"You needn't sound so astonished," Thorin told him, scowling, "I do have some little skill in jewelcrafting."

"Oh, I didn't mean...I mean...it was quite lovely, you made that?" Bilbo demanded.

Apparently, Thorin reserved his charm for strangers and inappropriately young ladies for all he offered Bilbo was a roll of the eyes and a frown, "That little pendant was hardly more than a few scrolls of gold wire and a stone on a chain. Any 'pprentice jewelcrafter could have made it."

"And you simply decided this afternoon to make it for her?" Bilbo asked, sourly, and Pearl had not been wrong after all, had she. Thorin had made it especially for her, twisted gold wire with his nimble fingers and shaped it into a flower for someone he had yet to even meet.

"I knew she was your kin. A pretty jewel can buy the heart of many," Thorin said low, then softer still, "But not all."

"Yes, I'm quite familiar with the opinion of Dwarves on jewels," Bilbo muttered and his twinge of guilt when Thorin's eyes widened and he flinched back as if struck, was rather faint.

Dwalin was a full head above the crowd, pushing his way through them like a bull snorting through a field and Bilbo stood even as Thorin's lips parted, his words unheard as Bilbo made his way to Dwalin and stole one of the pints before the Dwarf could do more than bluster an indignant protest.

The ale was unpleasantly warm though it soothed Bilbo's dry throat as he downed it, gulping it with fervor that any Dwarf would appreciate, though he used a handkerchief to pat his mouth dry rather than a sleeve.

Dwalin eyed him speculatively, his gaze flicking to the table where Thorin still sat and back to Bilbo, before he held out the other pint. "Care for another?"

"Why not?" Bilbo sighed unhappily, casting his own look back at Thorin and that faint guilt blossomed into a thick, curdled glut of it when he took in the hunch of Thorin's shoulders, his lowered eyes. If kicking Dwalin was a delight then there was surely no joy to be found in a verbal blow to Thorin, and why did he never think before he said such things?

And why was his mood so foul, by the by? Because Thorin had chosen to be kind to one of his favorite little cousins and on her birthday at that? Guilt was congealing into shame and he winced inwardly to think of what he had said, oh, that had been terribly cruel, to remind him of his bout with dragon sickness as if Bilbo _blamed_ him for it, for something Thorin could not have helped.

Bilbo carried the mug back, setting it on the table before him and Thorin looked up as he did, his eyes bleak.

"Have a drink," Bilbo offered, quietly, smiling wanly and Thorin offered one back in return as Bilbo added, "And I'm sorry. Sometimes I...I say things without thinking them through. I didn't mean it. That. I didn't mean to say that." Bilbo let his mouth twist with lingering annoyance. "Although I'll thank you not to give gifts to young ladies that you do not even know."

"If I'd known breaking your traditions would upset you so, I wouldn't have done it," Thorin said stiffly. He toyed with the mug handle and left the ale untouched. "I simply thought it might help smooth over our presence with your kin."

Honestly, if a Hobbit could drown in guilt, Bilbo would be clutching at straws this very moment. "I am _sorry_," Bilbo groaned. "I don't mean to be cross with you."

"It's all right," Thorin began and Bilbo shook his head earnestly, taking up Thorin's hand in both of his own, squeezing gently.

"It's not. What I said, that was cruel and terrible and…and, confound it, I suppose I was entirely too used to having you to myself...and Frodo," Bilbo added hastily, laughing a bit weakly. "I suppose I don't care for sharing."

"You needn't share anything of me," Thorin told him and Bilbo closed his eyes as Thorin threaded their fingers together, oh, this was..."I would much rather have a quiet evening of puzzles with you and Frodo, but your kin are important to you and having the two of us as guests has caused you problems enough."

"That troubles you so," Bilbo said, softly. He opened his eyes to find Thorin leaning in close, their foreheads nearly touching and Bilbo had to resist the urge to bridge that last distance, "Why?"

"I won't have you losing him," Thorin said, shortly, rearing back and his ferocity was not to be doubted. "I will not. Not from my presence or the will of your kinfolk or the very fall of Middle Earth itself. I will not." Bilbo resisted the urge to smile, such a dramatic declaration, so very like a _Dwarf_, and wasn't that what made him care for Thorin so?

"I won't be losing him," Bilbo assured him. "Not from the highly unlikely fall of Middle Earth nor from your presence and certainly not at the will of any of my kin. I'd leave the Shire before I'd allow that."

"You—" Thorin began, only to be interrupted by Dwalin's loud voice.

"Tho-rin!" he called out, drawing out the name in a wretched sing-song. "This young lass claims to be the birthday girl!" And indeed, Pearl stood nearby, her face and necklace shining in equal parts, surrounded by a group of her chattering little friends, Dwalin towering above them all. Dwalin clapped her on the shoulder with glee, nearly sending the tiny girl to the ground. "Seems that it's a tradition of some sort that any guest of her choice owes her a dance!"

A shadow of dismay fell over Thorin's face. "Is that true?" he muttered and Bilbo stifled a dismayed sigh of his own.

"Yes, it's true," Bilbo said in resignation.

The sight of such glee on Dwalin's face was surely the stuff of nightmares, "I b'lieve she'd like to ask you for a dance, then, your _Highness_!"

A fresh surge of prattle rose from the group and Bilbo was quite sure that the expression on Thorin's face was one he'd never seen before. To Bilbo's eyes, it looked like fear.

"You may as well face them," Bilbo said with uncharitable grumpiness, slouching back in his chair. "And while you do, take a moment to thank the stars that Dwarven women are a less common presence."

"Dwarven women are nothing like Hobbits," Thorin hissed, then pasted the bright, charming, and Bilbo now knew to be false smile of before on his face before rising to meet his admirers. The music swelled anew as Pearl drew Thorin out into the throng of dancers and Bilbo took up his untouched pint, swallowing that one down with nary a breath between gulps.

Dwalin plunked into the seat next to him, his face split into a gruesomely delighted smile, "You were right, lad, a Hobbit party is good fun!"

"Good fun," Bilbo gritted out, and kept his eyes from the dancers as he rose to find another ale.

He'd like to give Dwalin a lesson in what constituted good fun.

* * *

><p>end chapter 12<p> 


	13. Chapter 13

Halfway through his third mug of ale in a hand's span of minutes, Bilbo decided grumpily he might have been happier about this turn of events had Thorin proven to be a terrible dancer. A fanciful wish that went unanswered because of course he was excellent, as graceful in this as he was at swinging a sword.

It was an honest shame, it was. If he'd stepped on a bare Hobbity foot just once in those boots he'd be back at the tables shortly.

Next to him, Dwalin quaffed an ale of his own and the litter of empty mugs around them was like a field of battle, fallen soldiers everywhere. Dwalin wiped his mouth on his sleeve roughly, casting aside yet another stein that had fallen in the line of duty and his belch rang out over the cheery music, drawing a rousing cheer from the crowd around the kegs.

"A good bunch, them," Dwalin nodded to them, tipping back yet another mug and Bilbo thought, rather uncharitably, he might have saved himself a walk from time to time if he only brought back one of the kegs. He kept the thought to himself, lest Dwalin take him up on the idea.

"Yes, yes, they do make a party quite enjoyable, don't they," Bilbo said aloud, snagging another mug of his own before Dwalin could add it to his kills. From the far corner came more raucous cheers and whatever had caused that, Bilbo could not see, though he'd been in that group often enough to guess.

"Oh, aye, you seem to be having a fine time," Dwalin snorted, slamming down his empty stein. He nodded to the dancers and Thorin would have been difficult to miss even if it weren't for the brilliant flash of blue from his shirt.

He was a head above everyone else and if his steps had been initially uncertain, he'd learned the dance quickly enough. Even from this distance, Bilbo could see the laughter on Pearl's face as Thorin twirled her away and back again, his own eyes creased with humor. His hair twirled along with him, longer even than Pearl's, his braids swinging as the two of them moved gracefully along to the bright music.

"Not bad, is he," Dwalin belched. He gestured with hand and mug alike, spilling a wash of ale down on his trouser leg. "Trained in all that, he did, the dancing and fripperies. I remember. Heir to the throne as he was; they were training him in the ways of attracting a wife since he was a lad, whether he wanted one or not." Dwalin's grin of remembrance made Bilbo shudder; delight should never look so fiendish. "My own brother helped a bit. Didn't bother with me, I might add. Said it would be like teaching an ox to waltz and he'd not attempt the impossible."

"Nonsense, Balin should not have given up so easily," Bilbo said blandly, not at all interested in pondering the ways of attracting a Dwarven wife. "Surely he could teach an ox if he tried hard enough. You, on the other hand—"

Dwalin's roar of laughter echoed louder than his belch and he slapped Bilbo on the back hard enough to send a wave of ale down his shirtfront, watching with lingering amusement as Bilbo fussed and dabbed at the wetness with his handkerchief. "Aye, aye, you'll not catch me up there with the ladies." He cast a jaundiced glance at the dancers and Bilbo saw with a jolt that Thorin had changed partners, a young girl with dark curls and bright pink cheeks had taken up occupancy in his arms. "S'all right, I do b'lieve Thorin will take care of my share."

"You—" Bilbo began, rather hotly, and whatever poorly considered words that were prepared to storm from his somewhat less than sober tongue were halted by a cheerful, familiar voice shouting across the way.

"Mister Dwalin!" Hamfast bellowed, trotting up to them and from the tiny sway in his stance, Bilbo suspected he was rather less than sober himself. "Good to see you, very good! Would have been by Bag End for a visit, but it's the growing season, it is. Fall will be here soon enough and that'll be my busiest season." Hamfast did not seem put off by the idea, nodding happily. "Good to take a moment now and then for a pint, though, aye? I'll have to lay hands on you again soon enough and we'll make another go of the moonshine."

To Bilbo's great relief, Dwalin only snorted aloud and made no mention of his recent wheelbarrow adventure, "Aye, we might just at that. Your swill is nothing compared to others I've had, but it does as it should." Hamfast laughed aloud, his bright humor unoffended and Dwalin's eyes narrowed into a glare, "As to your laying hands—"

'Mister Bilbo, sir," Hamfast exclaimed, suddenly, sweeping off his hat and bobbing in a short bow, his apple-round cheeks coloring almost as bright as one, "Almost didn't see you burrowed down there. Oh, I don't mean to be stealing your guest away, I don't, Mister Dwalin and I was only having a word."

"Steal him," Bilbo said, urgently, "Take him away and ply him with words and ale, I beg of you."

"Well, that's right kind of you, then!" Hamfast exclaimed happily, clapping Dwalin on the shoulder and the Dwarf only tossed back the last of his mug before he rose agreeably. "Come have some of the ale I brought along, aye? You're a fellow with a fine taste for it, unless I've put you off our local flavors."

"Oh, never," Dwalin told him dryly, "I'd not want to miss another bout of waking with the taste of old socks beneath my tongue."

"Never owned a sock in my life, so I'll take your word on that," Hamfast beamed up at him and Bilbo decided it was rather like an older version of Frodo's worshipful look. Good lord, what had the two of them talked about on their last visit? "You're welcome to join us, Mister Bilbo, I know you've a fine taste for a good ale yourself."

"I'll be along directly," Bilbo said vaguely, his gaze drifting back to the dancers. Thorin was currently partnered with a short, plump young girl with long hair nearly as lovely as his own, rosy-cheeked with delight as were all the rest. He never noticed that Dwalin and Hamfast had left until he looked up and found them gone.

What are you doing, Bilbo Baggins, he scolded himself, fingering the handle of his latest mug of ale. It was ridiculous of him to be sitting here alone at a party of all places.

Eglantine had spared no expense in ushering her Eldest into the waiting embrace and responsibilities of adulthood. The musicians were eager and played well, sending even those who weren't dancing to tapping their toes and singing along. Barrels of ale were set out, offering their cool refreshment to those who craved it and pitchers of lemonade on every table for the children.

And the food! Bilbo could smell the banquet tables from here and each one groaned with the weight of the glorious repast set upon it. Early tomatoes and buttered corn, biscuits and sausages and great slabs of roast mutton sat alongside tureens of peas and potatoes, platters of pickled vegetables of all kinds. That didn't even touch on the desserts, fluffy cakes and fruit pies, a dozen varieties of cookies, and Bilbo's stomach let loose a hopeful growl, remind him that he'd had quite the day and very little in the way of food to show for it.

Nearby, he could hear the excited squabble of voices, some of the lads throwing dice no doubt and whatever it was that Hamfast had cajoled Dwalin into doing, well, that might be deserving of a quick looksee, just to make sure it was nothing that would get any of the farmer's running for their pitchforks.

In a word, there were things he could be doing and sitting here watching Thorin move through the throng of dancers was not one of them. The song changed though the tune was just as lively and Bilbo watched Thorin escape from the clutches of his sweet-faced partner, directly into the arms of another…was that Wilcomb Sandybottom's wife? Whether she was or not, she gathered Thorin up in the strong arms of a farmer's bride and had him back out with the dancers presently. He supposed sourly that perhaps they compared Thorin to a new pony in town and thought everyone should have a turn.

Not that Thorin seemed all that unhappy; despite his reticence of earlier, he seemed to have relaxed into the cavorting, slipping into the role of King o'er the dancers. The lads out there didn't seem much worried, laughing along with their ladies and Wilcomb only shrugged and offered Thorin a bit of a toast as he easily twirled May Sandybottom's slightly less than girlish figure about.

He supposed he could understand their lack of concern; as pretty as the little Hobbit lasses were, Thorin was hardly about to sweep any of them off their feet and carry them off. He was a King and perhaps that had meant little when Bilbo had met him, but no more. King Under the Mountain was no mere name and Thorin might be willing to dance and play with the little Hobbits, laughing as he caught another lass's hand and spun her about, his braids whirling and easier on his feet that one might believe. He might dance and charm and do whatever it was he was meant to be doing here but at the end of the day he was still a King.

And a King was hardly going to involve himself with a little Hobbit from the Shire.

Unbidden, a memory came to Bilbo, a more recent one, of Thorin's rich voice as he read aloud to him about, well, it turned out it was about Elves, didn't it. Ridiculous fancy, mere love poetry. If there was one thing his adventures had taught him was that stories were all good and well; reality tended to be somewhat different.

A voice startled him nearly into dropping his mug. "I believe I told you just recently that no matter how you glare, you'll never catch a person aflame, Mister Baggins," Mungo sat down beside him with a heavy groan, a lit pipe and an ale in his own hands. "You seem to be giving a good go of it, though."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Bilbo said, shortly, and it didn't help his temperament to note that Mungo was in a handsome new outfit of his own. At least he hadn't gone on to imitate the style he'd used with Thorin's, though he wouldn't have put it past the temperamental old tailor to do such a thing. Had he given it a try, in the mood Bilbo was in he might very well have snatched one of Mungo's furry caterpillar eyebrows straight off and confound anyone who looked at him askance about it. He took a deep draught from his mug, the better to resist the urge.

"No?" Mungo pondered that, the sweet smell of pipeweed filling the air as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. "If it troubles you so, you might steal him away for a dance of your own."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bilbo huffed. He nearly cringed at the very thought of it. Prancing about like a flower-bedecked pony on its way to the fair, for the others to gawk at, whisper about. No, no, thank you. "I couldn't possibly. And whyever would I want to, anyway?"

"I'm not the one trying to set the ladies' hems afire with the heat of my gaze." Bilbo turned that fiery look to Mungo and for once, he seemed to relent. Another slow, easy puff of weed and Bilbo didn't wonder that when next he visited, if he shouldn't bring an ale and a pipe along with him. They did seem to ease the tailor's acerbic nature. Mungo, meanwhile, only gestured to the dancers with his pipe-laden hand. "I see that my skills have not gone amiss. He looks as fine moving as he did standing still," Something sly crept into his smile, his wrinkled brow cocking in Bilbo's direction. "The other shirts suited your tastes, did they not?"

"I'm sure you're quite aware that they did," Bilbo said, a touch sullenly, though it was difficult to remain so as he remembered the way both had looked held up to Thorin's bare chest. "My pocketbook will attest to it. Although, you might wish to know that the line of the collar is a touch inappropriate to Dwarves."

That caught Mungo's attention and likely stung his professional pride as well, for his scowl was as black as roofing tar. "Ridiculous."

"Not at all ridiculous," Bilbo said with airy smugness. "Why, it's very nearly scandalous, or so I am told." Dwalin was a reliable enough source, Bilbo was sure, and he'd certainly been appalled.

Now Bilbo almost wished he'd agreed with him and his own temper sparked when a feminine hand chose that moment to rest perhaps a bit too lingeringly on Thorin's chest, her hand nearly over his heart, perhaps seeking the best place to drive a hat pin. She'd be feeling that fine fabric right at this moment, her sweaty fingers soiling the embroidery, and Bilbo heard the wooden tankard in his hand creak beneath his grip. Thorin only caught up her hand and neatly spun the bold young lady away, and Bilbo breathed a touch easier; of course, he'd not wanted the shirt ruined the first time Thorin had worn it.

So sharp was his relief that Bilbo took a stuttering lungful of air, only realizing just then that he'd stopped breathing, and he very nearly missed Mungo's blustery reply.

"It's daring, to be sure, but hardly scandalous!" Mungo informed him waspishly, the bowl of his pipe flaring cherry red as he puffed away. "I'd have had to cut it down to expose his heart to reach indecent. There's not a Dwarf alive who wouldn't be giving that collarbone a second glance and his royalty alone allows for a certain amount of leeway in fashion." He wagged a wrinkled old finger at Thorin and gave Bilbo a sharp-eyed look, "Mark my word, if he wears my shirt in that mountain of his, by the next day others will have the same style. Though the day he first wears it, I'd keep a hand on him, if I were you."

"You knew what the low-cut collar meant," Bilbo said, a touch blankly.

Mungo waved that carelessly away. "Of course I did, don't be foolish. A female Dwarf can have a low neckline at any time of the day but on a male Dwarf, well, that's an invitation," Again, that sly little smirk, the oily one Mungo often wore just as he was about to coax Bilbo into spending a great deal more than he'd meant, "What the invitation is for is at the discretion of the wearer."

Bilbo ignored all that, a scowl of his own rising. "How could you even know such a thing?" he demanded, absurdly irritated that Mungo had some knowledge of Dwarves that Bilbo himself had not.

"And why shouldn't I know?" Mungo scoffed. "I could tell you the fashion styles of most of the people of Middle Earth. Goblins and Orcs aside of course, their taste runs a bit more into skulls and intestines than I prefer to work with."

"But-"

"You think you're the only Hobbit to have met Dwarves?" Mungo gave him a scathing look and Bilbo flushed with a touch of shame, looking away. "I've met plenty, youngster, and Elves as well! I've met Men, lords and ladies alike. You're not the only Hobbit to venture out past Frogmorton, you know."

"I suppose I didn't think about it," Bilbo murmured and Mungo scoffed aloud.

"Of course you didn't. No one does. Do you think I'm the best tailor in the Shire out of luck?" Mungo demanded. "Think I just woke one morning and had the skill dripping from my fingertips? Doesn't work that way, boy, I went out and I learned!"

"I spent my journeyman years out there," Mungo waved an arm, not at Hobbiton or the Shire, but to what lay past it. "And when I learned what I wanted, I came back, and now I am here, using my skills for our folk and that's just fine." He gave Bilbo a shrewd look, "You don't know because my gossipy days are past me and yours are still fresh as a spring peach. But I tell you, you're not the only Hobbit who's gone on an adventure, Mister Bilbo. And when we return, if we return, I daresay we're better for it."

Bilbo looked back out at the dancers, at Thorin who towered over them all. At some point, Pearl had reclaimed him and Thorin twirled her with an easy grace that made the girl laugh in delight, her necklace a shining point of light and suddenly Bilbo felt very small for begrudging her the gift. Thorin had made that with his own hands with the thought in his head of gaining some small approval for Bilbo from his kin, and Bilbo had managed to repay him with sharp words. And now he was sitting here, fuming over a few silly girls fawning over Thorin when he knew full well Thorin would have no interest in them past the amusement of a dance.

As if he even had any right to be upset over it.

At just that moment Thorin caught his eye and his smile was for Bilbo alone. The flush of heat that it carried went through his belly to tighten his throat and Bilbo had to blink furiously as it burned in his eyes. He returned the smile with one of his own, flapping a hand at Thorin to return to the dancing and perhaps Dwalin's motives hadn't been entirely gleeful torture, as Thorin seemed to quite enjoy the dancing and likely wouldn't have joined them without a nudge.

"I suppose we are. Better for it," Bilbo murmured, low. Better for an adventure, better for having Dwarves in his life again, however briefly.

Mungo nodded firmly, "We are, and it would do a few of our kinfolk some good to see past our borders as well. They won't, of course. My Ferdinand," Mungo's voice lowered, a tone Bilbo had never heard from the old tailor, "My sister's grandchild, that boy, and he's the first 'prentice I ever took on. That embroidery on your Dwarf's shirt? The lad did it all, worked through the night to finish it. He has the heart for it, he has the talent, and I'll teach that scamp all I know. But I'll never persuade him to leave the Shire, to wander and learn new skills of his own."

"He'll have your skill, at least," Bilbo said, cautiously.

"My skill?" Mungo rounded on him with familiar sour temper, "MY skill? That boy should surpass me; he is the one who should be making garments for Kings! If I'd had him younger, I could have lit that fire in him, I suppose. Sent that little kernel of curiosity burning," Mungo took a long draught from his mug and two thin streams of ale trickled from the sides, staining his shirt unheeded. He thunked the heavy wooden tankard back on the table, rasping out, "Too late, now. I reckon he'll stay here in the Shire and spend his days making little hats and panty girdles for the old gossips at Market who used to whisper about me back in the day."

The last was said with such morose bitterness that Bilbo found himself struggling for what to say. Before he could work anything out, Mungo shrugged, and took another long swig from his stein, quaffing the last of it. "Ah, well, his life to live, isn't it. Now tell me," Mungo's beady eyes went shrewd, "Who is that large one over there, with the children dangling from him like ornaments?"

"Dwalin?" Bilbo asked, following the tailor's gaze. And indeed, he stood amongst a crowd of children, several of them climbing up him, propped on his broad shoulders or dangling from his strong arms. For some reason, there was a decent crowd around them and occasionally a cheer rose up. Bilbo was reminded of an old tale about a giant amongst little people and could only hope they wouldn't end by tying the Dwarf to the ground.

"Dwalin, eh," Mungo said, slyly. "He's a fine one, isn't he."

"Oh, no," Bilbo shook his head wildly, rising from the bench so quickly he knocked the edge of the table with his hip. A clattering of empty beer tankards toppling about nearly drown him out as he declared, "No, no, no, whatever it is you're thinking, no. I've told you his name and that is more than enough. I'll not get involved in anything else, I won't."

"As if I need your help, boy," Mungo said scathingly. Bilbo could only shudder, deciding that perhaps his hungry belly had the right of it and he might prefer the company of the banquet table for a time. Mungo seemed unconcerned at the distance or of any curious listening ears as he called after Bilbo, "I told you, I know a thing or two about Dwarves!"

"Don't look back, don't look back," Bilbo muttered to himself. Just now the less eye contact he had with anyone, the better.

Oh, nothing good could come of this. Of that, he was certain.

* * *

><p>A jaunt to the banquet tables turned out to be an excellent choice. His belly was grateful for a repast other than ale and his mood improved considerably, enough that Bilbo was content to stand with his friends and neighbors, laughing along with their jokes and trading stories that grew only the more outlandish as the ale flowed. Somewhere, he could hear the low, rumbling tones of Dwalin's voice close by and though he could not make out the words that they always seemed to be followed by a rousing chorus of laughter meant he needn't worry about that just yet.<p>

And if his eyes occasionally slid towards the circle of dancers, seeking a glimpse of blue and long, dark hair streaked with silver, well, it was perfectly reasonable for him to keep a close watch on his guests; one minor clash in cultural differences was quite enough for this party.

It was one such glance as that which led Bilbo slightly awry as he made his way back to the banquet table to freshen his plate. As he'd warned Frodo once to beware of, Bilbo's eyes led him astray and his feet took him directly into another Hobbit, a young lady in a particularly well-to-do dress.

"Oh, excuse me," Bilbo said automatically, dropping his plate to catch an arm before the other could topple to the ground. The lady swung around and Bilbo found himself face to face with Lobelia, her simple face twisted with irritation.

"Can you not watch where you are going?" Lobelia hissed at him. "Or are you far too busy watching the scene your guest is making?"

"I beg your pardon," Bilbo said, stiffly. "I don't think either of them is making a scene of any sort, not that it would be your concern if they were. Dwalin is off with the lads and not doing a thing they aren't, and Thorin is merely dancing, rather a thing that is done at parties, I always thought."

"Oh, yes, I've seen his _dancing_," Lobelia spat and Bilbo could only blink in shock at her venom. She'd always been unpleasant but rarely had she been so blatant. The smell of ale about her was strong and her eyes were reddened, snaps of crimson visible in the whites. "It's a scandal is what it is. Bad enough that you've ruined your reputation with your Dwarven whores, but parading them around in front of your own kin and neighbors-"

"Be quiet!" Bilbo said, sharply, his hands clenching into fists as he glared at her, "You shut your horrible mouth this very instant! That you would even say such a thing...!"

"I will not!" Lobelia shrilled at him, "Do you think I don't see what you're doing? You've taken Frodo as your own and now you're trying for a fresh tie to the Took line, is that it? Letting all and sundry offer indecent gifts to young ladies, in your stead, is it? Want to marry yourself a well-to-do bride and bring her into whatever horrors are lying in Bag End these days?"

Bilbo simply stared at her, close to speechless before he finally said, flatly. "You've lost your mind. Excuse me, I think I've somewhere else I'd rather be."

"I'm sure you have," Lobelia sniffed, "I suppose we'll see, won't we, just what your plans are for next spring. I shouldn't be surprised to see a wedding wreath on your door as you secure yourself a new fortune."

There didn't seem a point to arguing just how terribly ridiculous that idea was and whatever Lobelia thought he was up to at Bag End didn't seem appropriate for decent minds. Bilbo flicked a glance at the dancers and found nothing but laughing faces, Thorin's included, and suddenly he was quite determined that Thorin should hear about none of this, not a single word.

"Whatever happened to you, Lobelia?" Bilbo asked softly, and she seemed taken aback. For a moment, her expression softened into confusion and she seemed more of the young girl Bilbo recalled, before she'd married and twisted into what she was. And then it was gone, her face tightening again into venom and disgust.

"Whatever happened to me?" she hissed, "Whatever happened to you? Dirtying your family name the way you do! Traveling off to the East and coming back with your Dwarven whores and pots of gold—" she choked off on that, reddening.

"That's where it always ends up, isn't it, gold and treasures," Bilbo sighed. "You think I'd marry myself off for a few coins." And why shouldn't she think that, Bilbo thought privately, as he was quite sure that was what she had done. "Is Frodo's meager inheritance so very much to you? Then take it."

"What?" Her face went slack, flummoxed.

"Take it, I said! Any penny that was left to him is yours; he's my heir, he'll be well off no matter what. You take his parents' blood money and do what you will with it, for it will never give him nor you one ounce of happiness. I've seen what treasure can do, Lobelia, more than you ever will, and if there is one thing it will never grant, it's a happy life."

"You…you think you can buy that boy, then is that it?" Lobelia asked, though her voice wavered, unconvincing. "That you can keep me away like that?"

"I do, yes," Bilbo said, tiredly. "And I am. Go enjoy the party, Lobelia, and keep your venom to yourself. By the by, you're no longer welcome at Bag End. It will never be yours so I think you'd do well never to see the inside of it again. And stay away from my boy."

"You—"

"Stay away from my boy or you'll find just what kind of tempers my, what did you call them? My Dwarven whores possess." His mouth twisted. "I'm sure Dwalin will be delighted to know you referred to his King as such."

Bilbo thought Lobelia blanched at that and perhaps the shine to her eyes was not merely from the lamplight. He did not stay to find out, strode from behind the tent toward the happy laughter and cheer not so terribly far away. He had a need to see a young lad and a couple of Dwarves as well just then.

As it turned out, he didn't have far to go; Bilbo had hardly stepped from the tent shadows when a small figure topped with dark, mussed curls ran up to him, his blue eyes bright and happy, "Uncle Bilbo!"

The urge to catch the lad up and hug him was near irresistible and Bilbo did not even try, lifting the boy off his feet amidst his young giggles and hugging him tightly. Frodo buried into his embrace willingly enough, his little arms very near too tight around Bilbo's neck. Not that Bilbo minded, not even a bit; he could have been strangling and he wouldn't have let go of Frodo just then. Some of the tension he'd been carrying since they'd first arrived eased, drawn out from him like a splinter.

He pressed a kiss into Frodo's tousled mop of hair, murmuring into it, "You're a good lad, Frodo."

"I am!" Frodo agreed, enthusiastically and Bilbo chuffed softly, amused at the youthful arrogance of it until Frodo added, "You tell me all the time! And Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin, they say I am a good little Hobbit!" He drew back and regarded Bilbo with wide, solemn eyes. "So I must be very good, mustn't I?"

"Very good," Bilbo croaked, clearing his throat as he set the boy back on his feet, smoothing a hand uselessly over the wild bramble of his hair. "Now, what brings you to me, eh? Aren't you having a good time with your little friends?"

"Yes, yes!" Frodo cried, snatching up Bilbo's arm and tugging firmly, every bit of his young strength trying to drag him forward. "But you need to come along, you need to see! Fatty Bolger and Mister Dwalin are arm wrestling!"

"Oh, dear,' Bilbo murmured, hurrying after him and wondering how much wanton destruction he needed to curtail. And to see if it wasn't too late to place a bet of his own.

* * *

><p>end chapter 13<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

As it turned out, Bilbo wasn't too late to throw a coin on the bet pile but only just, even taking into account a stop by the ale barrels for another which naturally led to a quick stop at the buffet. Frodo had solemnly carried Bilbo's plate for him, nearly vibrating with impatience when they finally joined the crowd. To Bilbo's not-at-all surprise, Hamfast himself was taking wagers, his tongue wagging as fast as a barker at the summer fairs.

"Come on, lads, lads, have a look at them both!" Hamfast urged, "You're not thinking that young fellow is going to beat a Dwarf, are you? Three to one odds on Fatty, there we are, come along!"

The fellows in question were surrounded by a growing crowd at another table, cheers and catcalls rising from all as they strained and sweated, arms locked in mortal battle. They were the both of them red in the face, spewing out low grunts and hasty breaths as they each fought the grip of the other. Though Bilbo couldn't help but notice somewhere between being carried off by Hamfast and now, Dwalin had lost his hand guards and his axes were both leaned against a table leg, neatly out of the way yet still within reach.

Fatty Bolger was a strapping young lad, still in his tweens and already a half a head above most of the Hobbits in the Shire, and his arms bulged ripely with muscles borne of tossing hay bales and rooting up stones and stumps. Dwalin, on the other hand…well, he was Dwalin and Bilbo didn't give a second's thought to tossing his coin atop the Dwarf's pile.

"One silver coin," Hamfast complained, "Hardly worth the price of admission, that is…oh! Mister Bilbo! Didn't see it was you, sir, please, step lively and you'll see the end of this one," he beamed proudly at Dwalin, "He's already thrashed Ficus Proudfoot and Goody Smallburrow."

"My, you two have been busy since you stole him away," Bilbo said dryly. Hamfast only laughed and shook his head.

"Only a bit of clean fun, Mister Bilbo," Hamfast said cheerily.

"I only wonder how you managed to get anyone to arm wrestle him to begin with." Dwalin was by no means an easy mark and one glance at his arms should have sent even the brashest of Hobbits quailing.

"Oh, after a few ales, everyone is a champion," Hamfast said, pragmatic as always. "Mister Dwalin's had a fair share of his own and Ficus was the one who stepped up. He's had another tankard after each round, mind, so they're likely all figuring that eventually he'll be bested."

"And then they can rake in the winnings," Bilbo nodded wryly, "Yes, I'd quite like to see that happen. Me, I'll keep my bets on Dwalin. I know better." He raised an eyebrow at Hamfast, "Unless you two have some trickery up your sleeves."

Hamfast managed to look equal parts wounded and affronted. "Never would do such a thing, Mister Bilbo, not I! It's not right, it isn't, taking money unfairly from your neighbors." He lowered his voice and offered Bilbo a wink, "Besides, that old Dwarf wouldn't agree to it."

Bilbo barked out a laugh and shook his head, not believing Hamfast for one moment. He was scrupulously honest which was likely why he was being trusted with the wagers to begin with.

The cheers were dying and Bilbo rose up on his toes, trying to peer over the crowd. Frodo had already set his plate down and abandoned him for his little friends, several children standing on one of the tables straining to catch a view, for the sight of a Dwarf and a Hobbit in heated battle was surely one to feed a gossipy heart for days.

"I'm afraid you'll not find a Hobbit who can best him," Bilbo said regretfully. "Likely, your only chance would be to get Thorin to try and I doubt you can manage to convince him."

"Convince me of what?"

That deep, rich voice was coupled with the sudden warmth of a strong hand on his shoulder and Bilbo drew a slow, ragged breath, forced his voice to evenness as he replied, "Convince you to arm-wrestle Dwalin. What do you say, care to put on a show of your own?"

To Bilbo's amusement, Hamfast went pink, shaking his head and blustering before Thorin could even answer, "Oh, goodness, no, no, couldn't possibly allow that of royalty, I couldn't." He bobbed his head even as he shook it, looking for all the world like a chicken pecking the ground as he resumed his post at the betting table, shouting that this was the last of it, boys, toss in a coin before it was too late!

Bilbo found himself slightly more reluctant to draw away from that comfortable hand so close to his nape than he might have expected, his blood warm from ale and yet, he turned to face Thorin nonetheless, his welcoming smile only growing at the sight of him.

The elegance he'd begun the evening with seemed to have somehow gotten lost amongst the dancers; Thorin's hair was more tousled that Frodo's and his color was high, cheeks flushed and his eyes still sparkling. At some point he'd taken off his outer tunic and its loss only enhanced the deep blue of his shirt. That and its low collar, and perhaps it was best that Dwalin was distracted with his games. If he caught sight of Thorin like this, he might just toss his King over a shoulder and carry him back to Bag End, dignity be damned.

Perhaps it was the generous flow of ale he'd had all evening, or perhaps his spat with Lobelia had reminded him of just how unpleasant true venom was, but somehow, Bilbo's pique of earlier seemed as little more than a petty, distant memory. Pettier still when he caught the faint hesitation in Thorin's smile, as though he doubted his welcome.

Bilbo met that uncertainty with a warm smile of his own, eager to set aside his own sourness, "I hope you didn't have too terrible a time."

"Not too terrible, no," Thorin agreed, his grin widening and then to Bilbo's startled indignation, he reached out and stole Bilbo's tankard right from his hand. Bilbo watched, open-mouthed, as Thorin put his lips right where Bilbo's had been and downed it with a practiced gulp. "Thirsty work, though."

"I suppose it must be!" Bilbo blustered out, a tad weakly for Thorin was licking away a trace of foam from his upper lip and…no, he scolded himself sternly, none of that. His mental rebuke was interrupted by a loud shout and a roar from the crowd, cheers and groans alike and Bilbo turned to it automatically, straining to see who had won.

Not that he'd had any doubts but to see Dwalin on his feet with a mug in hand as he toasted his admirers made Bilbo certain that his coin would be securely back in his pocket shortly, with a companion or two as well.

"I see Dwalin has made a few new acquaintances," Thorin said over the noise of the crowd and he abandoned Bilbo's empty mug in favor of his plate, filching a tidbit with little regard to Bilbo's protests.

"Yes, a liking for good ale and food will endear you to a Hobbit," Bilbo said dryly, "But add a little entertainment, and you've a friend for life…now stop that!" Bilbo slapped Thorin's thieving hand away from his plate with a scowl. "And stealing one's food will earn you a mortal enemy! I've already had to defend my plate from Dwalin and Frodo; do not make me add you to the list of those I am wroth with!"

"Are we mortal enemies, then?" Thorin did not seem overly concerned with the idea, licking a streak of juice from one broad thumb and Bilbo did not feel a hot throb at the sight, he didn't, although another ale would not be amiss.

"If you steal one more of my pickled cucumbers, you will be!" Bilbo declared, snatching away his sadly dilapidated plate. "If you want your own, the buffet table is over there."

Thorin followed the line of his pointing finger with a mournful gaze, "It seems terribly far away."

"Far away!" Bilbo sputtered, torn between laughter and mock indignation. "You traveled halfway across Middle Earth not a week ago to come here!"

"Aye, and I'm still exhausted."

"I'll lead the way, your Highness," Bilbo said dryly. "It seems my plate needs a refill as well."

With hardly a thought to propriety and a maybe touch of mean-spiritedness towards Lobelia, Bilbo caught up Thorin's hand in his own, his fingers curling with growing familiarity around his thicker, stronger ones. Thorin offered not a single protest and only squeezed gently, once, before following Bilbo's impatient tug obediently.

If any of the young ladies who'd spent a dance or two with Thorin earlier cast an envious glance in his direction, Bilbo conspired not to notice, only walking along serenely, enjoying the feel of a warm hand in his own. "I do hope you enjoyed the dancing," Bilbo said, generously, giving Thorin's hand a light knead that was instantly returned.

"I did," Thorin admitted, "You might have joined us out there, though."

"Me?" Bilbo snorted, wincing away from the very idea. "I've bruised more feet on the dance floor than any one Hobbit should be allowed. The only partner I could have found would have been from pity or purchase, and I prefer neither."

Suddenly, his hand stopped and Bilbo with it, dragged to a halt along with Thorin and his expression was astounded, "You cannot dance?"

"Is that so astonishing?" Bilbo frowned. "From what I hear, Dwalin's dancing is more like a stampede of oxen and even that must be an improvement on his singing."

From Thorin's dismay, Bilbo guessed it was a problem after all and his hand, once a perfect leash for a Dwarf King, abruptly turned on him and became a tether that dragged him along, "But the buffet table is that way!" Bilbo protested, stumbling after Thorin as he was led away. He managed a last, sorrowful look at the gloriously food-laden tables before he was forced to duck beneath a tent flap as he was pulled inside.

Aside from a determined Dwarf, a quick glance around the tent found only empty crates lining the walls, likely to clean away the party remnants in the wee hours. Otherwise, it was only a large, empty, enclosed space and Thorin had yet to drop his hand.

"And what do we think we are doing?" Bilbo asked suspiciously, though he had sinking idea that he already knew the answer.

"_We_ are going to show _you_ how to dance," Thorin announced, with the same determination Bilbo remembered from their travels as he ordered someone to stand guard or to set up camp. Only, Bilbo was not on a travel nor an adventure, and Thorin, as he was fond of saying himself, was not_his_ King.

"Oh, no," Bilbo shook his head, frantically trying to retrieve his hand and for once he cursed soundly that Dwarves were so blasted strong for he might as well have tried to pull away from a stone. "No, no, no, and no! If I could dance at all, don't you think I might have found out some time before now? This isn't the first time I've been to a birthday party, probably not even the fiftieth, Thorin, so you needn't be thinking you'll be saving me from my own folly."

"Ah, and to think, here I was imagining I'd be your first," Thorin smirked and something in his tone made Bilbo blush hotly in a rush of confusion, one he had no time to reply to as Thorin added, "It shouldn't be that difficult for you to learn, you picked up a sword and managed to use it quickly enough. Even if it was more like chopping wood than swordplay."

"Yes, and my dancing would be more like dying throes of a goblin horde," Bilbo muttered then squawked aloud as he was pulled in, both hands caught now as Thorin held him what was surely too close, one of their paired hands held against Thorin's chest and the other clasped properly to the side.

"Close your eyes," Thorin told him, low, and Bilbo obeyed with a miserable sigh. "Now, listen to the music. Do you hear the heartbeat of it?"

"All I hear is the pipes," Bilbo grumbled and that was true enough, the song rendered tinny by distance and tent flaps. Above his head, Thorin chuckled, then softly hummed along, the low rumble drowning out even the thin whistle. Eyes closed, Bilbo listened to the deep resonance of Thorin's voice, carrying the lively tune into something richer.

He moved automatically as Thorin did, his feet carried along by steps and song, and Bilbo remembered vaguely the first time he'd heard Thorin singing, the longing that had risen in him to see mountains and valleys, to travel unknown roads in search of treasure and adventure alike.

"You see, you do have some grace."

The words in place of music very nearly made him stumble and Bilbo's eyes flew open and up to Thorin's, met the perplexing warmth in their blue depths with a scowl.

"You're too kind. You certain take to the ladies' part well enough," Bilbo pointed out dryly and it was true, Thorin stepped backwards with easy grace, although to say Bilbo was leading would be a gross exaggeration.

Thorin only shrugged, unconcerned, "When I was taught it was ensured I learned everything. It's easier to play one part if you understand both."

"That makes a certain sense…oh!" Bilbo winced as he trod heavily on top of Thorin's booted foot, fretting, "Oh, I'm sorry! Do you see, I told you, I'm awful at this, simply terrible, I should-"

His babbling attempt to flee only led to a wobbling spin that led him straight back into Thorin's arms, "Never fear, Dwarves have sturdy boots. Heavy as you tread, you'll never be able to top a hammer."

"I suppose not," Bilbo gulped and for just a moment, he closed his eyes, drinking in the warmth of the embrace, for he was terribly close. Close enough to breathe in Thorin's scent, to feel the low rumble in his chest as he hummed along to the music again, his voice lending fullness to the sprightly tune. Beneath his hand, he could feel the throb of Thorin's heartbeat, slow and strong, and so very much alive and Bilbo thought he'd rather feel the beat of his heart than that of any song.

The melody ended in a flourish, the low roaring cheer of the dancers following and with reluctance, Bilbo drew away, offering up a shy smile to Thorin. "Thank you, that's likely the nicest dance I'll ever have."

"I hope not," Thorin said distractedly, and he seemed entirely displeased when Bilbo turned back to the tent flap. Probably he wanted to keep dancing and…and as lovely as that sounded, Bilbo was very certain that it was not a good idea. He already felt too warm, the ale in his blood was giving him ideas, swimming fantasies through his thoughts like shoals of silvery fish that Bilbo dared not examine too closely. "Bilbo—"

"Well, come along," Bilbo gave his hand an impatient tug when it became obvious Thorin wasn't going to release it. "You're still hungry, aren't you?"

A low sigh greeted that and Bilbo tried to ignore Thorin's obvious lack of enthusiasm as he followed along, muttering sourly almost beneath his breath, "I'm sure you have no idea."

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked, confused and flustered as one, and for all that he'd been in a temper most of the night, a strange hurt lodged in his chest at the thought that he'd managed to anger Thorin somehow.

"Yes, I'm hungry," Thorin said, a bit louder, and his smile was reassuring.

"Right then!" Bilbo said with a touch of forced brightness, "Then perhaps it's best if I lead the way? That way we might be able to eat tonight."

"You aren't funny," Thorin told him, the quirk of his mouth only drawing a laugh from Bilbo as they made their way to the buffet table. Though Thorin did allow Bilbo to lead.

* * *

><p>Their plates were half-empty by the time they made their way back to Hamfast and Dwalin's crowd. It had taken them enough time to fill them as it was, since Thorin was just as likely to eat while he added to his plate and had no qualms about stealing tasty-looking bits from Bilbo's as well, ignoring any outrage or protest until Bilbo had armed himself with a fork and even that had only led to sneakier attacks. They'd rounded the table twice before staggering away, laden with food and laughter and crossing in front of the ale barrels for a fresh tankard each before wandering back.<p>

From the look of it, they'd abandoned arm wrestling, probably for the best, Bilbo thought privately, because while he doubted there was a Hobbit that could beat Dwalin, he had no doubt they might break a few things trying. The less he had to explain away to Eglantine later, the better, although knowing her she might only give his ear a twist for not letting her in on the gambling.

Still, Hamfast had a pile of coins in front of him yet and there was a great deal of cheering and shouting going on. Bilbo squinted, trying to see just what they were betting on but all he could see was Dwalin standing with the children, one clinging to each of his legs and another two on his shoulders, Frodo himself perched happily atop his head, clinging to hair and beard alike as he giggled sweetly.

It wasn't until Bodo Proudfoot stepped forward with another child, Pippin, Bilbo saw, and settled him next to Merry on Dwalin's shoulder that he realized.

"Are they betting on how many children he can carry?" Bilbo asked Hamfast in disbelief, even as the crowd roared when Pippin was settled, the tiny lad crowing in delight as he clung to his cousin.

Hamfast's reply was cut off by Dwalin bellow, "Oi! He's a biter, that one, give him a swat! No biting, that's a cheat!"

For all that, he didn't sway a step and soon the clink of coins exchanging hands rang out alongside unhappy grumbles and bright cheers. Hamfast was cheeriest of all and the pile of coins in front of him grew as he called out, "Pay up, the lot of you! And I want a fresh ale, don't think I didn't see you spitting in mine, Fatty Bolger!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Bilbo sighed, more amused than not, and he sat down at a nearby table, hardly twitching as Thorin moved to stand behind him.

Until his deep voice called over the roar of the crowd, "I bet ten he can take two more."

The sound dimmed, briefly, all the Hobbits turning to stare at the owner of that voice and by default, Bilbo, who'd just taken a large bite of a well-buttered biscuit. With some difficulty, he swallowed it down, chasing it with a quick draught of ale before tipping his head back to look at Thorin in disbelief, "Two more? Are you mad? His eyes are nearly popping out as it is!"

It was hardly an exaggeration. Dwalin's face was an alarming shade of crimson and had been even before he'd cast his bulgy-eyed glare at Thorin. One that was ignored as Thorin leaned down until Bilbo's eyes crossed trying to look at him before he said, fondly, "Then bet against me."

"You heard him, lads, ten says he can do two more, bets on!" Hamfast announced and everyone burst into a flurry of motion and shouts, coins slapped on tables and counted as Hamfast gathered them up as quickly as they were set. "Oi, and don't you go putting Obadiah Grubb's eldest up there, he weighs three of what the others do!"

The last coin was counted and a hush fell over the crowd as Bodo lifted the first one, a wide-eyed little lad, and balanced him to sit behind Samwise, who was clinging for dear life as he straddled a thick arm. Muscle bulged, cords straining in his neck as Dwalin took the weight and there was naught but silence. Then a loud cheer rose as Dwalin nodded shortly, beyond speaking, Bilbo was sure.

Bodo stepped forward again, scooping up a giggling young lass to settle on his other arm. For one brief, shining moment Dwalin stood, straining with the effort, dripping sweat and true to Bilbo's prediction, his eyes bulged outward.

And then he collapsed like a house built of playing cards, shrieking, laughing children piled atop him in a heap.

Groans and cheers rang out and behind him, Bilbo could hear Thorin laughing, his thumb warm against the nape of Bilbo's neck.

"You don't seem unhappy to have lost." Bilbo had to turn his head to say it over the raucous cheers and chortling demands for winnings. It sent that large thumb dragging just beneath his collar and Bilbo shivered a bit for it.

"I knew I would," Thorin told him, grinning widely as he watched the pile of children shift, Dwalin slowly reappearing from beneath them.

"Then why did you bet?" Bilbo asked, disbelieving.

"Some sights are worth what you pay for them," Thorin said serenely.

He had his coin ready when Hamfast came over, shaking his head sadly as he held out a hand for them, "Sorry to see you lost, your Highness. T'would have been a sight if he'd managed it, I'd say!" His own grin broadened as he took in the sight of Dwalin, hardly to his knees and already juggling Frodo and Samwise. "Good with the children, he is, very good."

"He is," Thorin agreed, though one brow rose as he took in the pile of coins Hamfast sat in front of Bilbo.

"What?" Bilbo busied himself tucking them into his pocket. "You told me to bet against you."

Thorin only laughed softly, though he paused to offer a mocking clap as Dwalin staggered over to them, Frodo and Samwise still clinging to him. He took a number of good-natured slaps to the back from the lads as he came and Hamfast clapped along with Thorin without a hint of mocking to it.

"That was well done, Mister Dwalin!" Hamfast said brightly, holding up his hands for his son, and Dwalin only scowled as he passed Samwise down to him despite the boy's reluctance.

"Aye, it was, until someone decided to join us," Dwalin growled, casting a baleful glance at Thorin. Who met it with sorrowful innocence that was too perfect to be believed.

"Ah, never you mind, that," Hamfast dismissed it, and his wide grin was honest as the sun as he held up a heavy coin pouch. "I made sure to put our money against you."

"Keep it," Dwalin waved it away and Bilbo winced, turning his attention to his own plate as Hamfast's warm, easy face darkened.

"Now, now, I'll not be taking any coin from you, Mister Dwalin," Hamfast said, low, "It's not in my blood to take any charity."

"Not charity," Dwalin said around a mouthful of cookie stolen from Thorin's plate and Bilbo took a certain vengeful delight in Thorin's outrage. "A Dwarf will never take a coin placed against them. Bad luck, that."

That was almost certainly a lie, Bilbo thought, though he kept it to himself as Hamfast wavered, his doubtful gaze flicking from the coins to Dwalin as he considered. It was a fair amount of money, likely as much as Hamfast earned in a month, and for all that Bilbo paid him well, Hamfast had a great deal of mouths to feed under his roof.

"Keep it for the lad if you're not wanting it," Dwalin said gruffly, waving as though it was no consequence to him, "Else I'll have to bury it myself. Can't let bad luck take a foothold, else a fellow's beard might fall out." He ran a rueful hand over his bald head, "Do you see what I mean?"

That earned him a hoot of laughter, and Hamfast shook his head as he tucked the coins into his pocket, "Aye, I do see. Well, you've done your part for the day! Maybe you'd like a stouter drink than the ale?"

"That's not—" Dwalin began, weakly, but Hamfast was already off, chuckling beneath his breath. Dwalin only stared after him in dismay, even as Frodo patted his head with a gentle hand.

"I think you look good with a bald head, Mister Dwalin," Frodo said stoutly. Dwalin only sighed as Thorin and Bilbo both smothered laughter, though perhaps Bilbo tried a bit harder than Thorin.

"Thank you, lad," Dwalin told him solemnly, "Do you see what happens when you don't eat your vegetables? Promise me you won't make my mistakes, aye?"

"Yes, sir, I promise," Frodo said, eyes wide as he held up his finger in a pinkie swear. Dwalin had only just swung him down into his lap to tickle him as Hamfast trotted back up, a pair of mugs in each hand. Samwise was notably absent and Bilbo wondered wryly if he'd passed the boy off to his mother.

"Here we are," Hamfast said cheerily, "May as well have a bit of fun until the rain begins."

"Rain?" Dwalin settled Frodo on his knee, eyeing the mugs warily, "You're mad, it's not going to rain."

"Never bet against a gardener's nose when it comes to rain, lad," Hamfast told him, tapping his own with one broad finger. "Now, a tipple for all, I think! Shall we drink to the birthday girl, lads, or just to wetting our whistles?"

Before he could even take a sip, a loud voice carried over the crowd, "Hamfast Gamgee, I suggest you come join me and your children for a moment tonight!"

A quick buzz of laughter came from the crowd even as Hamfast sighed, "Ah, well, there's my time, then. Coming, m'heart!" he shouted back, scrambling to his feet again and sweeping his hat off to bow to them, "You enjoy it, Mister Dwalin." He gave Dwalin a keen glance, "And thank you, sir. Thank you muchly."

"Safe journeys, friend," Dwalin said, and his smile was warm. For Dwalin. Hamfast puffed up instantly, his face lighting with a smile as he crammed his hat back atop his head.

"Aye, I'll be seeing you again soon, no doubt!" Hamfast said brightly as he strode off, humming, and Bilbo shook his head, giving Dwalin a look of his own.

"You're getting soft, old timer," Bilbo told him, picking up one of the mugs and peering at the contents dubiously.

"I've no idea what you mean," Dwalin snorted, as though he didn't have an arm curled around Frodo, the lad nodding as he leaned against Dwalin's shoulder. "Have a care with that, Hamfast must have dealings with a dark wizard to make such a potent drink."

"Soft," Bilbo scoffed, and to prove it, he lifted his mug in a mock toast and drank it down. The burn was deceptively smooth, Bilbo knew from past experience, and he kept his cough to himself, eyeing Dwalin triumphantly as he clunked down the empty tankard.

The Dwarf only shook his head, smirking as he pushed his own mug towards Bilbo, "Have mine as well, then, I'll not be drinking with Thorin and Frodo here. Maybe it'll put a bit of decent hair on you!"

"Dwalin," Thorin began, warningly even as Bilbo scowled at him.

"I'd think your night out with Hamfast would have proven to you, first, that Hobbits are stalwart drinkers!" Bilbo told him firmly, taking up that mug as well, "And second, that no matter how much we drink, we'll not sprout a hair anywhere one wasn't already planted. Otherwise I think you'd not be able to see our faces through our wooly beards."

Dwalin only smirked back at him, "All I learned is that a well-watered Hobbit knows a good arse when they see one. Care to prove the point?"

With a baleful glare, Bilbo downed the second mug as well, blinking as his eyes watered, "It'll take more than a little of Hamfast's homebrew to make me an admirer of your arse."

"Who said I meant mine?" Dwalin shot back and a large hand cuffed him firmly on the back of the head, Thorin glaring furiously at them both.

"Stop antagonizing him, Dwalin, or I'll tell the ladies how much you enjoy dancing," Thorin said firmly and the horror that rose on Dwalin's face made Bilbo snort out a laugh, smothering it feebly beneath his hand. "As for you, perhaps that's enough for the moment?"

"Are you telling me what to do?" Bilbo scowled up at him, tempted to take up a third mug simply to be contrary, although he did note with a touch of wooziness that the lanterns had taken on an odd halo to his eye.

"Oh, I would never," Thorin said smoothly. He laid a hand back at the nape of Bilbo's neck, his palm warm and dry, and Bilbo let his head drop forward with a groan, inviting him to touch as he liked. A moment of startled stillness, then large fingers twined into his hair, a broad thumb rubbing the smooth, soft skin behind his ear even as Bilbo shivered.

It felt lovely, and Bilbo would have been happy to sag down into the table and let Thorin stroke him like a drowsing puppy, no matter what his neighbors thought of it. For one glorious moment, he had it, gentle fingers exploring the point of his ear as he sighed happily, leaning into the touch, and he didn't even startle as Thorin leaned down to murmur, "You're being very quiet all of a sudden."

"That feels lovely," Bilbo sighed, perhaps a tad too loudly as Dwalin snorted a laugh, "Though I think you may be putting me to sleep."

Thorin's own laughter was soft, so close that Bilbo felt the warm dampness of his breath, "Certainly not my intention."

Again, a broad thumb drew down the curve of his ear and up again, rubbing lightly at the pointed tip and Bilbo groaned again, tipping his head into that gentle touch in a silent plea for more. Only for it to vanish as Dwalin spoke, abruptly.

"Thorin, I think maybe you should get a drink, an ale, perhaps? And a glass of water for our host would likely not be amiss."

There was sharpness to his voice that Bilbo was not used to hearing from Dwalin and he opened his eyes to peer at the Dwarves blearily, protest already rising as Thorin blinked, eyes flicking from Dwalin and Bilbo as he slowly nodded.

"I…yes, I think you may be right," he grated out and Bilbo could only watch sadly as he strode away, admiring the tautness of his shoulders through his shirt, and, my, Mungo was a fine, fine tailor.

"That was not nice," Bilbo grumbled, slouching to rest his chin on his hand as he glared at Dwalin. "And I still don't have a single pleasant thing to say about your arse."

"Well do I know it," Dwalin said dryly and Bilbo winced to see he was still holding Frodo, though now the boy was sound asleep in his arms.

"Oh, let me," Bilbo said, weakly, though he was hardly fool enough to believe he could carry Frodo just now. Likely he wouldn't be able to carry himself and a surge of guilt rose, honestly, just how old was he? Old enough and responsible enough to know better than to act as if he was fresh from his tweens and able to soak in homebrew without a care.

"None of that," Dwalin chided, low, and surely Bilbo's every thought was readily on his face. "I have him and you knew very well that I did, so let's not."

"But-" Bilbo protested, torn between responsibility and the desire to do just as Dwalin suggested, his sodden thoughts tumbling about. "He troubles you often enough, and he's my responsibility, I shouldn't expect you to watch over him all night!"

"Troubles me," Dwalin snorted, "Aye, and who are you trying to fool with that talk?" He sighed, resting his chin on Frodo's small head, his beard an odd match to the dark, tousled curls. "He's a good lad."

"I've just been telling him as much myself," Bilbo said, softly, and he reached out to rub a thumb over a smudge on Frodo's chubby, round cheek. His small face scrunched at the touch, lashes quivering and his mouth pursing, and then he was still again.

"He should hear it a time or two," Dwalin said, quietly, "Aye, he needs it." A long pause and then he added, low, "Kili was like that at this age. His da just lost and his mum still in a state about it. Fili was older, a stoic one, he was, like his uncle but Kili. He was always at my heels, always."

"He was a good lad, too," Bilbo said and tears stung his eyes, furiously blinked away. He laid a hand on Dwalin's shoulder, felt the quiver of tension until Dwalin shrugged him off.

"Aye, he was," Dwalin said gruffly. "Think I'll take this one off and tuck him into bed, if you trust me to find my way home?"

"Better than I trust Thorin," Bilbo assured him and his stifled snort of laughter still shook through Frodo's sleeping form.

Dwalin stood, balancing Frodo in one crooked arm with ease and even through Bilbo's steadily growing haziness, he noted Dwalin hesitating with some surprise. "Bilbo," Dwalin said, and he hesitated again, not at all the gruff, boisterous Dwarf Bilbo knew so well.

"Is something the matter?" Bilbo asked, gazing up at him with round-eyed concern. He rather hoped not; from the rising warmth in his blood, the pleasant drunkenness that was settling in, Bilbo suspected he'd not be much help. From afar, Bilbo saw a flash of lightning and thunder rumbled not long after. Hamfast's nose had told no lie, then.

Dwalin looked up as well, his shoulders sagging, "Ah, never you mind. The both of you will be home soon enough, aye?"

"I think we will, yes," Bilbo frowned and other Hobbits were giving the sky dubious glances, extra tents rising around them like large canvas flowers, for a little storm wouldn't stop a coming of age party.

"Right then," Dwalin exhaled, tucking Frodo tighter into his arm. "We'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight," Bilbo offered, a trifle uncertainly, wondering at what Dwalin had been about to say. Whatever words he'd stifled with Bilbo, he had no such compunction with Thorin, Bilbo saw, as Dwalin stopped him on his way back and spoke in low tones.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, glaring in annoyance. Likely he was warning Thorin that Bilbo was a bit knackered and was perhaps suggesting he take a moment to borrow a wheelbarrow. Or perhaps it was nothing so flippant, for Thorin's expression darkened, and he shook his head, waving Dwalin off. True to his word, Thorin was carrying two tankards and one, Bilbo suspected, would be filled with water.

He scowled as it was set in front of him, shoving it away, "I don't care what Dwalin told you, I'm not as drunk as all that."

"No?" Thorin exhaled softly and Bilbo watched with wobbly dismay as Thorin chose to sit across from him instead of standing behind him as he'd done for most of the night. "Then why are you so concerned with what Dwalin has to say?"

"I'm not," Bilbo said, stubbornly, shoving the tankard again, hard enough that liquid sloshed from the top, dribbling down the sides to puddle on the table. Unhappily, Bilbo drew a finger through the water, tracing wet shapes on the wood.

"Are you all right?" Thorin asked, honest concern drawing his eyebrows down and Bilbo nodded firmly, though his head felt terribly unsteady on the thin stem of his neck.

"I'm fine. I mean. No, no, I'm not," Bilbo confessed, low, "I'm a terrible friend."

"You—what?" Thorin said, bewildered. "And when did you decide this? Just now?"

"No, not just now, and I am," Bilbo insisted, slapping a hand on the table and a faint spray of water rose, misting his face and surely Thorin's, though he did not flinch. "I…you don't understand, I'm quite terrible, I am."

"You're right about one thing at least. I do not understand," Thorin took his hand, pressing a thumb lightly into his wet palm. "Or rather, I understand that Hamfast's homebrew is not to be taken lightly and whatever you are saying is probably akin to Dwalin's attempt at groping me the other night."

"Oh, yes, I'm completely ridiculous," Bilbo snapped, snatching his hand away and Thorin blinked, his hand curling into a loose fist as though his fingers missed Bilbo's. _Oh, fanciful thoughts_, Bilbo groaned to himself,_ do leave me be!_ He was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, and every ludicrous notion he'd had since Thorin had arrived was churning unhindered through his sodden brain.

An unexpected splash of wetness fell on his hand and Bilbo stared at it stupidly even as it was followed by another, another, the drying patches of water on the table surging into renewal as the heavens abruptly opened up and poured rain down upon them.

Shrieks rose from every direction, the crowd surging for the tents though there was not enough room for all. The rain was a shock of cold to the senses and Bilbo stood anxiously, unwilling to crowd beneath the tents but uncertain as to where else he might go.

"This way!" Bilbo dimly heard and he stumbled to follow the pull of strong hands, drawing him to some place where the rain eased, going from a drenching downpour to a light, pattering drizzle. There was roughness against his back and it took a long moment for his dizzied brain to take in that he was leaning against a tree. The drooping branches took the worst of the deluge, funneling it down leaves and undergrowth and the rest…

The rest was kept from him by someone rather taller and so very, very close, both arms braced on either side of Bilbo and his head bowed, as if to make a barrier against the storm itself with his own body.

Water trailed down Thorin's cheeks, hardly visible in the feeble, sputtering torchlight that remained, dripping from the ends of his hair and even his beard, every bit of him drenched and Bilbo bit his lip as a great tremor went through him, his tipsy thoughts spinning endlessly as he watch one clean raindrop drip from the tip of Thorin's nose.

"Are you cold?"

Lips formed the words, Bilbo knew, he watched them do it. Dumbly, he nodded, though he wasn't quite sure it was true. His hands felt clumsy and wrong, moving of their own accord and so numb he barely felt the wet, silken twine of braids as he grasped them, tugging stubbornly, pulling Thorin's head closer still and his eyes widened, his dark lashes wet and spikey. He looked oddly young, blinking rapidly against the rain seeping into his eyes from his hair, rivulets trailing down his cheeks as they had at the river, such lovely hair…

Bilbo found his woozy gaze drifting, sliding randomly from dripping water and hair to a mouth. Thorin's lips were tinted faintly blue so perhaps Dwarves did feel the chill after all and his mouth looked soft, framed by his beard as though in invitation and Bilbo found himself wondering with the bleary curiosity of drunkenness what Thorin's mouth tasted like.

Was it as soft as it looked, would his lips part at the touch of another's against them or would they remain stubbornly closed, refusing entrance to the dark sweetness within? Beneath this tree in the tremulous torchlight, Bilbo had the most overwhelming of urges to find out.

He watched, rapt, as those shapely lips moved, forming a single, uncertain word.

"Bilbo?" Thorin asked, hesitantly, so very close that Bilbo's eyes nearly crossed looking up at him.

Surely Thorin wouldn't begrudge him a simple kiss, Bilbo decided, tugging lightly on the damp braids tangled in his grip, watching as Thorin's eyes narrowed in a wince. He was very close already, the tip of his nose brushing against Bilbo's and his breath was a warm gust, sweetened with ale and terribly soft. Soft as the tangle of his hair between Bilbo's fingers, soft as his mouth looked, oh, those tempting lips.

"Bilbo." His name again, tremulous as it shaped and fell from that soft mouth, the puff of breath that formed it a warm touch and Bilbo wet his lips as though he could taste it, wished to taste more. Bilbo found he was greedy for it, wanted the flavor of that breath across his tongue, to take in a lungful of it as his own. He tipped his head up, pleadingly, felt the light rub of the nose against his as he pushed up on his toes and reached for it.

Instead, his face buried into a chilly curtain of wet hair, cold and clinging, and he sputtered, flailing back in confusion. His alcohol-soaked mind took long moments to puzzle through it, soddenly going back over his motions until he came to the inevitable conclusion that he had not missed. Thorin had turned his head away before Bilbo could have his taste and left him with a mouthful of hair as a replacement.

Well, then. It would seem Thorin would begrudge him a kiss after all and Bilbo struggled to free his hands, ignoring Thorin's winces and low curses as he pulled and tugged until he was loose. He staggered back against the rough bark of the tree, glaring up at Thorin with every ounce of his pained betrayal.

Only to find Thorin looking back at him with a pain of his own, utterly stricken, his eyes wide and lost and…oh, dear.

An abrupt rush of nausea quickly replaced miserable desire and Bilbo staggered to the side, hands raised to fend off Thorin's concern.

"I'm going to be sick," Bilbo announced, wretchedly, and promptly put word to action. His only saving grace, if there was one to be had for him this night, was that he managed to miss Thorin's boots.

* * *

><p>end chapter 14<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

It was the rain that woke him, the persistent patter of it against the panes of window glass and Bilbo groaned aloud at thrum of it, burying his face back into his pillows. The light was still deep gray and miserable, attesting to both the early hour and the rage of the summertime storm. Neither made the idea of getting out of bed enticing and Bilbo drowsily decided that a lie-in was definitely in order, rolling deeper into the comfort of his blankets.

Or he tried to. His bed seemed to have other ideas and it grumbled back at him unhappily, something it had never done before to Bilbo's knowledge. With an effort, he pried open his aching eyes, peering through the gloom at his complaining mattress and found it was not his bedding that protested his move, but the Dwarf who was currently occupying the other side right where Bilbo had tried to settle.

Sleepily, Bilbo mumbled an apology and began to roll back over. Somewhere in between the act of moving and his eyes closing, awareness snapped back into being and Bilbo froze, eyes widening as he slowly turned his head back.

Thorin was sleeping in his bed, Bilbo's eyes told him helpfully. Sleeping. In his bed. Right next to him, close enough that Bilbo's cheek was cushioned on the mussy spread of his hair over the bed linens and it was lovely and soft, cool as a fresh pillow against his skin and smelled sweetly of Bilbo's own soap and that was not the point! The point was that Thorin was asleep in his bed while Bilbo was also in it, that was the point, it was, and oh, gracious, just what had he _done_ last night?

His gibbering, tumbling thoughts were rising to new levels of hysteria when his aching eyes caught on to another fact. Thorin was not _in_ his bed; rather he was _on_ it and fully dressed at that. At some point he'd changed out of his party clothes and into a simpler shirt and trousers, both of which were currently on him and the shirt properly fastened to the throat.

Dwalin would approve, Bilbo decided with wretched relief and he let his pained eyes drift closed again as he tried to recall exactly how he'd come to this turn of events.

Returning to Bag End was something like a wobbly dream, and vaguely he remembered being ill, being held, being carried. By Thorin, naturally enough, and Bilbo wondered if it were possible to die of utter humiliation, for if it was, he'd prefer to do it before Thorin awoke and spare himself some small pain.

Very carefully, Bilbo shifted and there was a fresh bit of mortification he could add to his growing collection; he was in his nightshirt which meant he'd changed into dry clothes when they'd returned home or rather, _someone_ had changed him into dry clothes and Bilbo suspected he knew just who that someone was.

He wondered with grim humor if Thorin had had any idea how frequently he'd be caring for drunken fools on his journey. And also, if Hamfast had realized just how much trouble he would be causing when he tinkered with his homebrew recipe, for surely he must have. Bilbo could distinctly recall other occasions of drinking a great deal more than he had the night before with no ill effects, like vomiting or falling into bed with a Dwarf King.

Next to him, Thorin slept on, oblivious to Bilbo's panic and with trepidation, Bilbo let his eyes slit open again, taking in the sight of him.

Dark lashes lay against his cheeks, trembling at the minute shift of his eyes beneath their lids as Thorin wandered through whatever dreams had found him this morning. His hair spread out in a wild, uncombed mass, and unthinkingly, Bilbo rubbed his cheek where it still lay in that softness, stealing a tiny shred of contentment at the feel of it.

In his limited experience, Bilbo had found most Dwarves snored with a fervor that could topple trees or send rocks tumbling. At night he could hear the low rumble of Dwalin through two walls and a pillow over his head. Thorin was a lucky exception to that rule; his breathing was gentle, hardly a sound rose from his parted lips…his lips, soft and pink, and almost Bilbo remembered something, yes, there had been rain, both of them drenched, and Thorin had been sheltering him from the storm, hadn't he?

Yes, that was it, Bilbo decided, stifling a weary yawn, he had been, and his hair had been hanging in wet ropes, silky in his grip and…he'd been holding Thorin's hair, in both hands, his face wet and so close to Bilbo's and his mouth had been a temptation and he had…he…

Oh.

If he had wanted to die from humiliation only moments before now Bilbo was well prepared to kill himself from it and surely suicide was the only course of action when one tried to kiss a close friend in a drunken stupor, a friend who just happened to be a King and the despairing sound that strangled loose from Bilbo's throat would have risen over the roar of the most dedicated of snorers.

If Thorin was well-accustomed to sleeping through Dwalin's slumbering cacophony, then the death-call of a forlorn Hobbit was hardly the same. Slowly, those dark lashes lifted and Bilbo could only clutch his blankets to his chest, watching fearfully as Thorin blinked, his sleep-glazed eyes focusing sharply and casting themselves right at him.

"Are you feeling well enough?" Thorin asked drowsily, shifting into a lazy stretch that ended in a wince as his hair caught beneath Bilbo's head. Hastily, Bilbo scrambled back, freeing him and how lovely it was that fate decided to add yet another tiny humiliation to his ever-growing stack.

"I'm not sure," Bilbo told him. "Does the overwhelming urge to toss myself from a bridge count as well enough? Perhaps burying myself alive may qualify."

"That is not at all funny," Thorin's eyes drifted closed again. "I kept you alive throughout the night, you aren't allowed to kill yourself in the morning."

Oh, of course. Bilbo closed his eyes as the swamp of his misery seemed to overwhelm him. Of course Thorin would stay close to him; he had done much the same for Dwalin when he'd been in his own drunken stupor. "You shouldn't worry," Bilbo said, bleakly, "The most I could do if I fell from a bridge in Hobbiton is dampen my trousers."

"We were damp enough last night," Thorin said, smiling faintly. "Spare your wardrobe some pain and let it be?"

Trust Thorin to make light of it, Bilbo thought wretchedly, swallowing back the sourness rising at that back of his throat. Likely, Thorin would allow it to fall to the wayside, nothing more than a bit of foolishness caused by too much overly strong homebrew.

So why was it that Bilbo couldn't?

"I am so sorry," Bilbo said, low, and his mouth tasted of ashes, hot and dry, his throat aching.

"You needn't—" Thorin began and Bilbo shook his head, swallowing back the rising lump in his throat.

"I do," Bilbo said raggedly, "I do, you've been absurdly tolerant of Dwalin and I both, and I—I…"

He trailed off, blinking hard, and the ache in his eyes had nothing at all to do with a morning-after malaise. Thorin was sprawled across his bed and Bilbo could only stare at him, wondering helplessly at how…how perfect he looked there. Leaning up on his elbows, the wild tousle of his hair over his shoulders, mussed as though a hand had spent the night buried within its silky tangle. One knee was drawn up and the sprawl of his legs was more of an invitation to Bilbo than his collarbone would ever be, his feet bare against the coverlet, that slim silver ring on one toe winking up in a coy offer of its own, begging for a leisurely exploration.

He was the very picture of one imploring to be debauched to Bilbo's eye and it was surely a sign of just how delusional Bilbo's eyes had become that he was even thinking such a thing.

A frown was creasing Thorin's face now, drawing his brows together as he began, "It's hardly tolerance and you are certainly not Dwalin—"

A sharp tap on the window interrupted him and they both turned to look at it. Instead of the shift from rain to hail that Bilbo had expected, he saw a large black shape through the wet blurriness of the glass.

It was a bird, Bilbo realized with baffled dismay, tapping insistently on his window, and he watched in surprise as Thorin slipped from the bed, padding silently over to it. To Bilbo's astonishment, he opened the window to allow it inside.

A raven hopped lightly within, shaking the raindrops from its wings before settling on Thorin's arm with a hoarse caw of greeting.

"Bilbo, this is Gudrún, a distant grandchild to Roäc, whom you met at Erebor," Thorin said, low, "She does not speak Westron else I would introduce you properly."

"She is well-met, anyway," Bilbo said, or as well met as any could be in a private bedroom while the host was in his nightshirt. A raven from Erebor and that reminder, that Thorin was indeed a King and had responsibilities past those of watching over a drunken Hobbit, was sharp as a knife blade. "Is…is something wrong, then?"

"No," Thorin said with an odd sort of weariness, "I've been expecting her." He said no more, stroking one broad finger over Gudrún's damp head and she crooned out an appreciative croak, preening beneath his attention. That blade of pain sharpened, twisting cruelly in Bilbo's chest because he'd known, hadn't he, that they were going to leave.

He'd been thinking of it only the night before, of course he'd known, but to have a raven of Erebor here in his home, to have that reminder thrust into the forefront of his thoughts when Thorin had only just been in his bed…in his bed, and realization was dawning, as relentless and unstoppable as the rising of the sun.

"Ah," Bilbo said, hollowly, blinking, and the force of his unwanted knowledge was staggering him. "Then I'll leave the two of you to speak." That got him a sharp look as Thorin turned swiftly towards him, so quickly that Gudrún spread her wings for balance, squawking gruffly.

"_We_ are not finished speaking," Thorin said heatedly.

"Yes…I mean, no, I…but I should wash up," Bilbo babbled, backing up a step, two, at the rising storm in Thorin's expression, darker even than the clouds in the sky.

"Bilbo…" Thorin said, dangerously low. Gudrún was shifting on his arm, nervously, her clawed feet catching lightly on his shirt.

"I'm sure I'll feel more proper after a wash and some fresh clothes," Bilbo prattled on and he nearly yelped aloud as he bumped into the door, scrabbling clumsily for the knob and Thorin was already moving towards him by the time he had it open, darting through it, and if fingers ghosted against the back of his nightshirt, they were not quick enough to grab a handful of it.

"Bilbo, by Durin's name, will you hold!" Thorin bellowed after him and Bilbo could not, he couldn't.

He could not stand there and wait to hear Thorin magnanimously forgive him for his impertinence last night, he could not bear it, not with his heart thundering in his ears, not with the memory of Thorin sprawled drowsily across his bed still fresh in his mind. Comprehension was rising in him with relentless certainty and he simply could not. He dashed into the bathroom, hardly able to be grateful it was currently unoccupied, and hastily threw the flimsy bolt.

Distantly, he heard a crash and could not even care what it was that had fallen beneath Thorin's temper. Whatever he had thrown was of little consequence beneath the sudden weight of his new, unwanted awareness and he sank down to the floor in front of the door and buried his face against his knees, wondering with cold misery just how long he had been falling in love with Thorin.

And he was, he had, he did. If there was one thing a chilly morning after had offered him it was sharp, bitter clarity. The ache of his head was quite handy at clearing the fog of his denial and it was not potent homebrew that had urged him to try and steal a kiss the night before, unless it counted as a draught of liquid courage.

It was want, and oh, he _wanted_, he still wanted, dread and despair hadn't cleared that away. What kind of fool was he, Bilbo wondered with a bitter humor, that he hadn't even realized? How long did any idiot need to gawp after someone before it occurred to them it was hardly an aesthetic appreciation of a lovely form that was drawing heat from within? Thorin was a fine sight, to be sure, and just now every bit of Bilbo wanted to appreciate that on an entirely different level, one a great deal lower and that would leave them both sore and exhausted.

He cringed, digging his fingers into his scalp as he thought of his actions the night before, his angry jealousy, and of course, of course it was, even_Mungo_ had noted it for pity's sake!

And what did that leave him with? More fool, he, worse than the giggling young lasses at the party, because he was the little Hobbit from the Shire who was stupid enough to fall in love with a King.

Or perhaps he'd never needed to fall at all.

Lucidity was a particularly cruel gift and Bilbo thought perhaps he'd loved Thorin for a great deal longer than that and the mere sight of him on Bilbo's doorstep, of his warm smile, had only revived that glowing coal into a flame.

Thorin could never know, Bilbo decided fiercely. It would ruin their friendship, and the trust between them might well shatter again, leave its sharp-edged pieces between them in a broken path Bilbo would not know how to cross.

Worse, the fondness in Thorin's gaze when he looked at Bilbo might be laced with pity and Bilbo could not bear to even consider that.

It was just as well that Gudrún's presence could only mean one thing; Thorin and Dwalin would be leaving soon and much as the very idea tore a bleeding wound into his already suffering heart, there would be at least one silver lining to that particular storm cloud.

There would be no one left he needed to hide from.

The prickle in his eyes turned to hot tears faster than Bilbo would have believed and he wiped at them impatiently with his sleeve, sniffling pathetically, and he allowed himself that indulgence for a long moment, tasting the salt wetness that escaped, droplets catching at the corners of his mouth.

Then he forced himself to stand, pouring cool water into a basin to wash his face. _Stop it_, he ordered himself crossly, _you just stop it right now_. There was no point in crying and mooning about, there simply wasn't. Just now there was breakfast to get on, Frodo to look after, Thorin to…to…deal with. There were things that needed done and he'd best get to doing them.

* * *

><p>Once he'd gotten his face washed, Bilbo took a moment to use the facilities for what they were meant for instead of simply a handy place to hide. Perhaps he scrubbed his hands a bit too long afterward, but still, he did his business and after that, there was nothing for it. He couldn't very well stay in the bathroom all day, although there was a bit of temptation to at least remain until Frodo or Dwalin came knocking impatiently.<p>

In the end, Bilbo could only stand to be so ridiculous and sitting on the toilet with the lid down and his underclothes up was pushing him past his limits. Instead, he crept from his own bathroom like a thief, like the burglar he'd once been, peering warily around corners as he made his way to his own bedroom. His hands were trembling as he pushed open the door, bracing himself when he stepped within. All for naught; his room was empty of both Dwarf and bird, the blankets on his bed still tossed carelessly about, almost as if someone, or two someones, had been tussling beneath them.

Bilbo staunchly pushed that idea aside, walking quietly in and very nearly stepped on the first shard of smashed pottery. He bent down and picked it up with a confused frown, only just recalling the loud crash he'd heard in the bathroom. More fragments were littered about, and on one wall was a large wet blotch, dribbles of water trailing downward in wet streaks that had trickled down to puddle on the floor.

Water and the darkly-glazed pieces of pottery clicked into place and Bilbo finally realized that Thorin must have thrown his heavy water pitcher against one wall before leaving.

Bilbo sighed inwardly, picking up the worst of the mess so he might at least avoid cutting his foot on a shard. He'd have to get the broom from the kitchen to do better. A shame, that, he'd been rather fond of that pitcher, too, it was just the right weight and size, and the matching basin was still on his nightstand, empty, as it would be forever more.

He shouldn't have run away, he supposed, though if Thorin was angry Bilbo had not given him a chance to properly accept his apology, he could do well not to take it out on Bilbo's crockery. As wonderful as it had been having Dwarves at Bag End again, Bilbo had to admit, they were a great deal harder on his dishes than they had been the time before.

Although he couldn't help but wonder if the news Gudrún had brought might have been the cause of this.

Well, he wasn't going to get any answers here and with an impatient huff, he stepped around the remaining mess of pottery and puddled water and made his way to the closet, dressing quickly. Neither Frodo nor Dwalin had put in an appearance yet this morning and Bilbo would be a liar if he said that didn't worry him a bit. The last time he'd allowed Dwalin to rise with the boy, they'd had cookies for breakfast; who might guess what they'd do this time around.

* * *

><p>He smelled it before he saw it, that particularly sharp burning aroma that spoke of food being ruined rather than the hearth. With no small amount of trepidation, Bilbo rounded the corner and stopped, mouth dropping open as he took in the ruins of his kitchen.<p>

The first thing that caught his eye was a litter of dishes was everywhere, the table, the counters, the floor; stacked high and wobbling, spoons and spatulas poking out from the occasional crevice. Flour coated the table, the floor, and the room's occupants in a fine layer of dusty white, to the point that Frodo looked as if he were well-prepared for a fry pan, his blue eyes the only point of color on the lad.

Speaking of Frodo, the boy was currently on the floor, humming a happy little off-key tune as he carefully added water to what appeared to be a mountain of flour, turning it into something more like a volcano, one that threatened to breach the powdery wall and send its contents spilling across the floor to menace Bilbo's woodwork.

A mismatched set of plates was laid out on the table and each heaped with what Bilbo suspected had possibly been food at some point in time. Those charred lumps had perhaps been potatoes and the runny, yellowish ooze that loomed up at him with an aura of pure evil might once have been eggs. The scones were rather lovely, of course, but they would be considering that Bilbo had baked them himself the day before.

Dwalin, or what was left of him, was seated at the hearth and he was stirring a pot that he watched with ferocious intensity. Porridge, from the look of the caked-on remnants trailing down the side and Bilbo suspected it had boiled over a time or three. That might explain Dwalin's fierce regard now as he stirred what little remained.

Whatever sound rose up in Bilbo's throat could surely only be called a whimper, hardly even a noise. It was enough to catch Dwalin's attention away from impending doom of Frodo's increasingly gooey volcano. His flour-dusted head jerked up and the look in his eye could quite fairly be called panic.

"You're awake," Dwalin informed him dumbly, as though Bilbo had somehow failed to notice that fact in his walk through the hallways.

"I am," Bilbo agreed mildly, stepping very carefully across the threshold, gingerly avoiding miniature piles of flour and the occasional dirty spoon, making his way to a beaming Frodo.

"We're making breakfast!" Frodo announced proudly and at just that moment, the wall of his flour volcano was breached and a wash of gloopy water thundered out from it in a flow of sticky doom, promising to stick unpleasantly to tile and wood and leave a residue that would take a week of scrubbing to remove.

"Yes, I see that," Bilbo pursed his lips, stepping back just before his toes were engulfed.

Just behind him, he heard heavy footsteps that just as quickly halted, and Bilbo turned around in time to catch a glimpse of Thorin Oakenshield utterly flummoxed, his mouth open as the look in his eyes slowly shifted from shock to horror. At least he'd taken the time to put on his boots and braid his hair up properly before venturing out; Bilbo could be grateful he wasn't confronted with his bare feet yet again, one small boon for an increasingly wretched day that had only begun.

"Dwalin…" Thorin began, slowly. There was danger in that low tone and where Dwalin was usually on his mettle for any hot exchange of words, beneath the force of Thorin's more righteous temper he wilted like a spring daisy in the summer heat. Oh, honestly, that was simply too much to bear and Bilbo's soft heart took pity.

"Thorin," Bilbo interrupted smoothly. "Would you please take Frodo to the washroom and clean him up? I think Dwalin and I can handle things in here."

For a long moment, Thorin didn't move, and the weight of his stare shifted from Dwalin to Bilbo. For a moment, they all stood in a frozen tableau, Bilbo blinking in shock for the heat in his eyes was no little irritation but fiery anger. Thorin was _furious_ and Bilbo nearly quailed beneath it as Dwalin had, baffled as he was to the cause.

Had he been mistaken? Perhaps Thorin was not going to be so quick to forgive him for the night before, perhaps this morning he had been biding his temper until he'd been sure Bilbo was not about to vomit upon him if he offered harsh words.

But Dwalin had done as much and worse, and Thorin hadn't been so terribly angry with him, unless…just what had Gudrún _told_ him?

As tempting as it was, Bilbo did not drop his gaze; instead he lifted his chin and only met Thorin's fury with his own calm. Surely it was only a moment or two that they stood so, eyes locked as temper and defiance battled silently in the air between them. It was Frodo who broke through it, tugging on Thorin's clean shirt with a floury hand.

"Carry me, Uncle Thorin?" Frodo said pleadingly, raising both arms and Thorin's eyes dropped to him, taking in the state of his clothes, his hair, his…everything.

"I think perhaps this time you'll have to walk," Thorin told him dryly, offering a lopsided smile, "Mrs. Gamgee is going to have enough laundry to deal with this week without adding any of mine, I'm afraid." Frodo giggled, rubbing his flour-dusted nose with an equally messy hand and Thorin hardly grimaced at all when he took that same hand in his own, drawing Frodo down the hallway and away.

Inwardly, Bilbo sagged in relief, the moment broken. Perhaps Thorin had simply had his share of disobedience for the day, particularly if whatever news Gudrún had brought him had not been of the pleasant sort. Bilbo made a mental promise to ask Thorin just what was going on later, when things had settled a bit between them and his own tumultuous emotions weren't churning so close to the surface.

For now…Bilbo turned to Dwalin, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked up at the Dwarf with a frown. Dwalin shuffled his feet rather like Frodo did when he was caught out, eyes firmly on the ground and it was quite interesting how such a tall fellow could make himself look rather small. Defenseless, now, that he'd never manage, but he did seem smaller.

Bilbo turned to his kitchen with a sigh, taking in the dishes with a jaundiced eye before he offered, "You wash and I will dry?"

Dwalin nodded eagerly, his mouth twisting into a wry smile, "Aye, that does sound like a plan."

As one, they began to gather dishes and Bilbo lost himself in the familiar monotony of cleaning, letting his troubled thoughts ease for a time as he and Dwalin battled the ominous force of his ruined kitchen. As distractions went, he could have done with better but for now, this would simply have to do.

end chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

If there was to be one saving grace for this misery of a day, it would be that Dwalin was equally capable of cleaning messes as he was at making them. He washed dishes with alacrity, scrubbing bowls and plates and scouring pots with zeal. Bilbo could scarcely keep up to dry them and in hardly any time at all the dishes were washed and put in their rightful place.

The floor was another matter and after some consideration, Bilbo sent Dwalin out in the rain to the Gamgees to beg for the borrow of a shovel. It was likely a sign of his lingering guilt that he went without a protest, though it took him somewhat longer than Bilbo would have expected to return and when he did, breathless and dripping wet, his cheeks were flushed brightly beneath his beard.

Oh, for heaven's sake, Dwalin was certainly doing his best to revise Bilbo's opinion about his completely respectable gardener and his wife. Better not to think about that, Bilbo decided, for he'd already tasked his faintly headachy brain with enough of a burden this morning.

With the combined might of the shovel and an expertly wielded broom, the remnants of Frodo's experiment were quickly bagged up and set aside for the compost pile. In short order, Bilbo's kitchen was mostly back to its usual pristine state, leaving only Dwalin on his knees with a hard brush in hand, scrubbing away at the last vestiges of doughy sludge.

It was half-past second breakfast and Bilbo's stomach was gurgling with piteous frequency, letting him know on no uncertain terms that its betrayal of the night before was not to be held against it and it firmly expected to be fed per their usual agreement.

Porridge had lost its appeal after Bilbo had been treated to its aroma when it was burnt, so pancakes it would be. Humming softly, he made his way around Dwalin to gather ingredients and bowls, stirring them up while Dwalin watched and scowled.

"We just washed all that," Dwalin complained.

"Indeed," Bilbo cracked an egg into the flour and stirred it in. "That's the nature of the beast, I'm afraid. Dishes never do stay clean, although," and here he slanted Dwalin a dubious look, "I usually manage to cook without dirtying every dish in the cupboards."

Dwalin only grumbled, scrubbing ferociously at a particularly stubborn bit of caked on flour, "I thought to have most of this cleaned up before you came out this morning."

"All that while you watched Frodo?" Bilbo only shook his head, amused, "I wasn't so terribly under the weather from last night, just how long did you expect me to sleep?"

"Sleep?" Dwalin chortled, shaking his head, "Aye, I'm guessing you had plenty of sleep, given his mood."

"What do you mean by that?" Bilbo said, a touch too forcefully, not at all in the mood to endure any teasing, not…not yet. Of course Dwalin would be aware of just where Thorin had spent his night, but Bilbo hadn't mocked him all that much about his own drunken evening. Surely the ruins of his kitchen had been payment enough for any transgression.

He slapped his heavy fry pan over the fire with enough force that a mellow gonging sound rang out. Dwalin was looking up at him from the floor with a frown that Bilbo was just as forcefully ignoring.

"All our travels together, I always thought you were a clever one," Dwalin said finally.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bilbo snapped, and it was only years of practice that kept him from spilling the pancake batter into the fire.

Dwalin shrugged, climbing to his feet, and Bilbo chose not to point out the spots he'd missed. "Means what it means."

The sound of little Hobbit feet pattering through the hallway put an end to that line of inquiry and Bilbo was nearly grateful. His gratitude faltered when he took in the sight of his nephew, his round face freshly washed, clothes neat and tidy…and his hair neatly combed into two little pigtails, bound with a set of lovely leather ties that Bilbo suspected he knew just to whom they belonged.

Right behind him was Thorin, in a fresh shirt and trousers, and he met Bilbo's raised eyebrows with a challenging look of his own. "We would have been quicker," Thorin told him, and Bilbo suspected he was not imagining the hint of coolness in his voice, "But I found that after I washed Frodo, the bathroom needed a cleaning of its own. And after all that, I did."

"I'm not surprised," Bilbo managed. There, do you see, he told himself, Thorin was right before him and the world had not ended. Bilbo could stand to be here with him even knowing what he did, even with a pained tightness growing in his chest that came from watching the way Thorin seated himself, taking in the stiff set of his broad shoulders.

Thorin was still upset, then, hardly a surprise, knowing as he did how Dwarves held on to a grudge. He only hoped Thorin wouldn't be cursing drunken Hobbits on his deathbed and just the ill-considered thought of that made Bilbo flinch, busying himself plating up what scones had survived this morning's wreckage.

He plunked them on the table before reaching out to give one of Frodo's ponytails a tweak as the lad beamed up at him.

"I'm a Dwarf today!" Frodo announced, shaking his head so that the bound curls wobbled in their ties.

"I see that. You look quite fine but I must say, do you know in Hobbiton it is usually the girls who wear their hair in tails," Bilbo said, a touch dryly.

"A ridiculous notion if I ever heard one," Thorin replied firmly and Dwalin nodded agreement, snagging up one of the scones.

"Aye, but you can't expect better from folk with no beard," Dwalin said in a philosophical burst of crumbs, and Bilbo could only roll his eyes at that gem of wisdom.

"I will concede to you both on all matters of hair care, considering that between two of you, you have enough to for me to knit a rug." Bilbo plated up the pancakes and laid out butter and table syrup, leaving the Dwarves to doctor their own food as he made one up for Frodo.

Only to lose his chance as Thorin scooped up that plate as well, cutting the pancake into bite-sized pieces as Frodo bounced impatiently, for surely a lad who'd only had Dwalin's offering of breakfast would be ravenous. "And it would be a fine rug indeed if you made it of Dwarven hair, but I'll not be offering any of mine, thank you. Not many of our people would care to be shorn like a sheep."

Bilbo firmly did not consider what a rug made of Thorin's hair might feel like. Food was an excellent cushion for many a blow and he sat next to Thorin with his own plate, all of them busily eating for a long moment before Bilbo quietly broke the silence.

"I am sorry, for last night," Bilbo said, low. Dwalin could likely hear him as could Frodo but the both of them were buried in their plates and truth be told, Bilbo was rather hoping their presence would be another sort of buffer.

He could not mistake the way Thorin stiffened and he stabbed at his food with unnecessary ferocity as he said, "I told you, you needn't apologize."

"Well, I have and I am, that's all there is for it," Bilbo said, firmly, "I always meant to do it properly only Gudrún interrupted us—"

Dwalin, who had been pretending to have attention only for his plate with remarkable success, lifted his head at that, frowning sharply, "Gudrún is here?"

"Aye," Thorin told him, low, "She arrived this morning."

"Already?" Dwalin groaned. "Thorin—"

"Leave it," Thorin ordered sharply and Bilbo could only stare, baffled, as Dwalin dropped into his own tongue and his tone was one of argument, cut off with a single harsh word from Thorin.

"Do you have any idea how maddening that is!" Bilbo burst out, frustrated and baffled in equal parts as Dwalin subsided sullenly, shoveling up a forkful to chew fiercely and the table was filled with as many glares as it was plates. "Honestly, is it that terrible? What is going on in Erebor, another dragon, perhaps? What news could she have brought that is such a secret?"

"She did not come from Erebor—" Dwalin muttered and Thorin slammed a fist on the table hard enough that silverware bounced. Frodo was watching with wide eyes, his own fork stuck partway into his mouth and Bilbo was no less surprised than the boy was.

"That's enough!" Thorin said sharply. The noise Dwalin made could charitably be called rude and he shoved aside his plate as he stood, scowling fiercely.

"All right, then, your Highness," Dwalin growled, "Deal with it your way. Seems to be working out just fine, it does, aye?"

Thorin shoved his own plate aside with an angry grunt and stormed out of the kitchen, Dwalin following and two sets of Hobbit eyes only stared after them.

"Uncle Thorin is grumpy today," Frodo ventured and Bilbo could only nod.

"Yes, I believe he is. Napkin," Bilbo chided and Frodo quickly obeyed, wiping his face even as he reached out and stole the remnants of Dwalin's scone from his plate. Bilbo did not bother to scold him for that. Waste not, want not, after all.

* * *

><p>Breakfast seemed to set the mood for the day, full of snarling words and grouchy looks.<p>

It was the rain, Bilbo decided, trapping them all indoors when they would much rather be out and about, and while Dwarves could not be said to enjoy gardening, neither did they enjoy being trapped inside a Hobbit hole. For them it must seem unbearably cramped, having to duck through the doorways and such, everything altogether too small for them and neither Dwarf seemed able to resist the urge to shove the other whenever they walked past one another, scowling fiercely.

Like children, really, or worse than children for if it were Frodo and Samwise sniping at each other, Bilbo would have given them a good scolding and perhaps even set them in corner to have a good think about why they were being so surly to one another.

Unfortunately, with two Dwarves, the both of them taller, wider, stronger and considerably grouchier than he was, Bilbo didn't have the option of corners and he'd need a stepstool to cuff either of them on the ear, something he doubted they would stand still long enough for him to manage.

It seemed to Bilbo that Thorin had taken to avoiding him, burying himself determinedly in his book and answering any questions with short, quick words. Worse was Dwalin, who kept prodding at Thorin, dropping short, gruff sentences in Khuzdûl and as honestly aggravating as that was for Bilbo, it seemed worse for Thorin, and if Dwalin was prone to biting the handle from teacups, Thorin seemed ready to shatter every pitcher in Bag End on Dwalin's head.

The only one that they seemed to possess an iota of patience for was Frodo and even that seemed frayed, as the lad was making himself as bothersome as possible, asking endless questions about the color of the sky and why was it that water was wet.

"But if there is air in the sky, why doesn't it fall down and squish us?" Frodo asked persistently. He was seated on the sitting room rug, surrounded by scattered papers and his box of paints. His once-clean trousers had already taken the brunt of his enthusiasm but Bilbo thought it best to let the boy alone. At least _he_ wasn't irritable.

Dwalin was sprawled out on the rug next to him, one heavy arm slung over his eyes as he groaned aloud. "Lad, can't you ask me an easy question, like where babies are from?"

"Don't you dare-" Bilbo began, shrilly, even as Frodo brightened eagerly.

"Oh, yes, tell me that one, Mister Dwalin!"

Before Dwalin could say a word, Thorin was answering him gruffly, "Babies are a gift from the hand of Mahal, given to their parents with love so that they might be cherished."

"Oh," Frodo sank back down, chewing his lower lip as he considered that. He wrinkled his little nose, scribbling a messy streak of green over his paper as he announced, "That's boring."

"Terribly," Thorin told him, deadpan, though he favored Dwalin with another harsh look to add to his growing collection.

"What?" Dwalin protested. There was a smudge of blue paint in the middle of his forehead that Bilbo decided he was not going to mention. "I was about to tell him that very thing!"

Bilbo only sank deeper into his cozy armchair and buried his nose into his own book. It was a dry history about properly crossbreeding tomatoes that Hamfast had enthusiastically recommended to him. Dreadfully dull, really, but Bilbo kept on with it doggedly. It would seem he'd lost his taste for poetry for the time being.

* * *

><p>Somehow, they trudged on through the day, idling through books and snappish conversation. Only once did Thorin and Dwalin sit together in an ill-considered attempt at chess that Bilbo had put a quick halt to, fearing for his chess pieces and his walls alike.<p>

After supper, he'd shooed them all desperately from his kitchen, determined to get some baking done. Normally Bilbo had a decent stock, quite accustomed to making food for two Hobbits. Adding the lusty appetite of two Dwarves had depleted more than just his supply of cookies and now there was only a single crusty loaf of bread remaining. His biscuits had been polished off at suppertime and while he might brave the rain and take a trip to the market, there was something uniquely satisfying about cooking for others.

That, and if he remained in the kitchen he wouldn't have to be around the lot of them.

The bread dough was still rising on the back counter and Bilbo had just taken another tray of biscuits when he heard it, harsh voices raised in shouts and Frodo's shrill cry above all of it. The tray nearly fell to the floor in his hurry to dash out and Bilbo ran with unseemly haste to find the Dwarves in his living room, if not locked in heated battle, then at least in a minor skirmish for Thorin had Dwalin pinned to the wall by his throat, his fingers digging in to the vulnerable softness beneath his jaw. Though Dwalin had both hands clenched around Thorin's wrist, he did not struggle and his face was slowly turning from red to crimson.

"Don't hurt him!" Frodo shrilled, his cheeks wet and Bilbo reached to draw him away, shocked to dumb silence by the scene before him.

Before Bilbo could do more than lay a hand on the boy's shoulder, Thorin startled, as if he'd forgotten the Hobbits were there. Dwalin's lips were tingeing purple when Thorin abruptly released him, casting a wild look at Frodo and Bilbo before turning on heel and striding from the room. Distantly, Bilbo heard the front door open and close with an unexpected care.

Dwalin coughed, massaging his throat and Frodo had both arms around one of his legs, nearly sending the Dwarf to the floor as he sobbed wetly against his knee while Dwalin patted his head feebly.

"Oh, stop your caterwauling, laddie, I'm just fine," Dwalin rasped out, "Thorin and I spat all the time."

"I don't like you to fight," Frodo sniffed, a sentiment Bilbo fervently agreed with. Dwalin only rubbed away a streak of wetness on Frodo's cheek with one broad thumb.

"You'll break Thorin's heart, crying like that," Dwalin rumbled, tapping Frodo lightly on the upturned tip of his nose. "Now, I know the ways of Dwarves and Hobbits are different, so you hear me now. He did not hurt me, aye?"

"You're bleeding," Frodo said doubtfully and Dwalin wiped his nose with the back of his hand, taking in the streak of blood with a touch of surprise.

"Ehhh, hardly a love tap," Dwalin said disdainfully. "And I earned it."

Frodo hardly seemed convinced and Dwalin clucked his tongue in dismay, scooping the boy up and giving him a good cuddle. Bilbo wasn't quite sure he was convinced either, even though he knew Dwarves tended to roughhouse…well, quite roughly.

Not that he wanted Dwalin to offer him a cuddle, mind.

"Go after him for me, will you?" Dwalin asked and it took Bilbo a moment to realize Dwalin was talking to him. "He won't have gone far. Have a smoke with him, aye? Settle him down?"

"I…" Bilbo started, hesitating. That meant he'd be alone with Thorin, something he'd rather been trying to avoid and….and hadn't he just confessed to Thorin what a terrible friend he was being? He had, Bilbo thought, another drunken memory clicking into place. It was all good and well to feed him and even clothe him, but something was obviously troubling Thorin past the rain. Bilbo lifted his chin determinedly, "All right, then. I don't suppose I need to worry about the two of you?"

"Go after him," Dwalin said, a touch urgently, and Bilbo gave him a narrow look that was met with bloody-faced innocence. It was on the tip of his tongue to give Dwalin a stern warning to behave. Bilbo resisted the urge, gathering up both his and Thorin's pipes and his own tobacco pouch. He might as well not waste the words.

Never had his own door seemed so ominous and Bilbo took a quick, deep breath, let it out, before he stepped out it. He was a good friend and something made him suspect Thorin might need one just now.

* * *

><p>Dwalin was correct, Bilbo saw, Thorin hadn't gone far. He stood beneath the oak tree that sheltered Bag End, arms at his sides and even from the distance, Bilbo could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched slowly, as though he were still imagining wringing Dwalin's throat.<p>

For all that, Bilbo did not hesitate to walk up to him and he knew the moment Thorin sensed him, for his shoulders stiffened.

"Dwalin sent you out here," Thorin said, sourly.

"It's entirely possible I decided to come out on my own," Bilbo told him lightly.

"No, it is not," Thorin's shoulders drew taut as he hunched in on himself. "I saw your face inside; you would not have come without his urging."

"But I am here," Bilbo pointed out and Thorin only hunched further.

"I am sorry," Thorin said, low, "Frodo—"

"Is with Dwalin and he is fine. Come on, then, over here," Bilbo said, mildly, settling himself down at the lee of the tree where the rain didn't touch. He took out his pipe, packing it lightly as he waited and after a long moment, Thorin sank down to sit next to him, stiffly, knees drawn up so that he could rest his elbows on them.

Once his own pipe was done, Bilbo took up Thorin's and he did not rush as he filled it with Longbottom leaf, "Now, I know you prefer that awful, bitter weed you smoke, but I'd like you to try this. Old Toby is the finest in the Shire and it would be a terrible shame if you didn't have a bit while you are here."

Next to him, Thorin smiled but there was no humor to it. "I prefer that awful, bitter weed because for many years it was all I could afford. I grew accustomed to it." He took the pipe when Bilbo handed it to him, though, and Bilbo did not flinch as their fingers brushed.

"That hardly means you can't try something new when the chance presents itself," Bilbo said lightly, and he flicked a match with practiced ease, holding the flame over the bowl of the pipe.

They smoked together in silence for a time and Bilbo could almost feel the pipeweed doing its work; Thorin was relaxing next to him in degrees, the vibrating tension leaving him in minute increments. Bilbo took a puff from his own pipe, breathing out sweet-scented smoke into the wet air and even he had to admit that the Longbottom crop had been particular fine this year, a boon to both of them.

Around them, Hobbiton was laid out, gray-tinged in the drizzling rain and though the tree shielded them from the worst of the droplets, Bilbo could still feel a fine mist against his hair. Less pleasant was the dampness of the ground seeping in through his trousers but that was a burden he'd have bear for Thorin did not seem inclined to move. His eyes were closed as he laid his head back against the rough bark of the tree and for a long moment, Bilbo allowed himself the indulgence of looking to his fill.

There was a bittersweetness to it, taking in the lines that creased Thorin's face, from age, true, but also from burdens that Thorin had carried for far too long, burdens he still carried, for the weight of leadership had found him even here in the Shire, Bilbo thought. Those same burdens had lent silver to his hair, running through darkness like a vein of precious metals through stone and the damp had drawn it into ringlets. The urge to run his fingers through those curls was nigh on overwhelming and Bilbo clenched the bit of his pipe between his teeth and forced his eyes away before he gave in to the impulse.

Instead, he allowed himself another indulgence and settled his hand over Thorin's lightly. Instantly, Thorin curled their fingers together, gripping gently, and Bilbo drew in another lungful of smoke, let it out slowly. This much he could have, this he had had before, and none would be the wiser if he took it again, drawing his thumb down to Thorin's wrist and pressing lightly against the thin skin there to feel the low throb of his heartbeat.

"Now," Bilbo said, finally, and he hoped Thorin would blame the roughness of his voice on the smoke. "Do you think you might tell me why you were trying to throttle Dwalin?"

"When do I not want to throttle Dwalin," Thorin returned, wearily. Bilbo gave him a glance and then had to quickly look away. It was asking entirely too much of him to watch Thorin wrap his lips around his pipe, pursing them slightly as he breathed out the smoke.

"True enough," Bilbo allowed, "But you usually managed to restrain yourself to the desire rather than the action."

Thorin said nothing and Bilbo sighed. Without thinking, he drew their combined hands up to rest his chin against them. Oh, that wasn't particularly clever, was it, but now that they were there, Bilbo gave in, rubbing his chin lightly against their knuckles.

"The two of you have been squabbling all day," Bilbo said, low, "And I am not so foolish that I cannot realize the cause."

"Oh?" Thorin said and Bilbo frowned at his tartness. His fingers curled in Bilbo's grip, twisting up and tweaked his nose with such impertinence that Bilbo sputtered aloud. "Do tell me then, how very not-foolish you are."

"Well, I'd like to say it was over the honor of my kitchen," Bilbo huffed, "But even I can see you're upset over whatever it was that Gudrún told you."

"Indeed," Thorin said with such practiced neutrality that Bilbo swore he was going to crack a tooth, grinding them in frustration as he was.

"Yes, of course!" Bilbo said impatiently. "I'm not a Dwarf, to be sure, nor am I a King or a warrior or…or whatever it is that you prefer in a confidant, but you must know you can tell me what's troubling you. I can keep secrets, Thorin, and I'm a terribly good listener. You must remember that."

Next to him, Thorin shifted and his words were a great deal closer to Bilbo's ear when next he spoke. "I know a great deal about you, Bilbo Baggins, more than you realize, I think."

"Right," Bilbo coughed, waving away a cloud of smoke that was close to choking him. Even so, he took another nervous draw from his pipe, coughing that breath back out as well. "Right, yes, well. Then you can tell me what's troubling you, I should think."

He heard Thorin sigh as he sank back against the tree, tapping his pipe against his knee. "I made an admittedly hasty attempt to strangle Dwalin because he called me a coward. I'm sure you can imagine I don't care for such accusations."

Bilbo's mouth dropped open and he stared at Thorin in blatant shock. "No, he couldn't have possibly done," Bilbo denied flatly. "I imagine you'd finally make good on your threat to behead him for saying such a thing." Not that Bilbo would approve of any beheadings, particularly one of a friend but honestly, calling any Dwarf a coward was a sure path to such a gruesome demise.

"I assure you, he did," Thorin said, low, "And worse, I cannot say that he was wrong."

Bilbo only shook his head, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He'd never thought Thorin of all people would voice such nonsense. "Thorin, please, speak plainly and tell me what is going on!"

"It was Balin's idea that we come," Thorin began, slowly, and the low rumble of his voice mingled with that of the falling rain. "The Dwarves that remain in the Blue Mountains are still my people and it was reasonable to send an envoy to them during this time of peace and assure them as to their welcome in Erebor. At Balin's advising, I named Dain's eldest as my heir and left the two of them to safeguard my throne while my guards and I journeyed to the Blue Mountains to speak with the Regent and address my remaining people."

"But you aren't in the Blue Mountains," Bilbo ventured, uncertainly. "And you are certainly not with an envoy. I'd like to think I would have heard a bit of gossip over a group of Dwarves roaming wild over the countryside."

"Clever of you to notice," Thorin smiled, "We parted ways just outside of the Shire and I sent along the head of my Guard as an ambassador in my place. The Regent was unaware that I was the one coming; he only knew an envoy would be sent, and so he could hardly miss what he did not expect."

"You sent them to the Blue Mountains," Bilbo said, slowly, trying to make sense of it. "While you and Dwalin came here to Hobbiton."

"Yes. It was an excellent bit of planning on Balin's part, do you see?"

"I don't, no," Bilbo admitted and Thorin's laughter was soft.

"I could hardly announce to my advisers and magistrates that I was planning a trip to Hobbiton, could I, and would they mind terribly keeping an eye on the mountain while I was gone," Thorin said, as if he was being perfectly reasonable. "You must know that I spent years dreaming of Erebor. So much so that I think I never paid attention to where I was. Your home is no mountain, and yet. It is peaceful, here."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," Bilbo told him and it was true; if being here offered Thorin some form of peace, he would be welcome at Bag End to the end of Bilbo's days and likely past that, and if Bilbo's heart ached at the thought of having Thorin so close to him and yet, not his, then it was a pain he would hold gladly.

Thorin was silent for a time, the quiet fall of rain around them the only sound. "You live an idyllic life and I have loved being here. But as I have been firmly reminded, we cannot stay. No," Thorin shook his head, his hair spilling in a damp fall over his shoulder. "No,_ I_ cannot stay. Gudrún came to tell us that the others have finished their business in the Blue Mountains and we are to meet them soon. As Dwalin has consistently reminded me, I am nearly out of time."

Out of time for what, Bilbo wondered, bewildered. Out of time to enjoy a spell away from his responsibilities, to relax in the most peaceful of places in Middle Earth? "Thorin," Bilbo asked, softly. "Why are you here?"

Instead of answering, Thorin lifted their joined hands, running his fingers over Bilbo's as if examining them, touching each fingertip, each nail with the same remarkable delicacy that he must use when crafting jewels to give to young Hobbit lasses, "You have such tiny hands."

"I would say you have large hands, but I'm not going to quibble about semantics and you are not a coward," Bilbo said, exasperated and he stole his hand back, the better to remove distractions. That only left Thorin his pipe to fiddle with and Bilbo watched in bemusement as Thorin indulged in that as well.

"No," Thorin sighed. "I am not a coward. I came because I had a question that needed answering."

"A question?" Bilbo blinked. "You traveled all this way over a question? What kind of question could not be answered in a letter?" Gudrún did not speak Westron but surely she could have been trusted with a note.

"There are many questions that should never be put to paper," Thorin said, quietly. "Some questions must be voiced."

Bilbo nodded slowly, "I suppose that's true enough. And have you learned the answer yet?"

"Bilbo." The sound of his name, so rarely spoken to him by this Dwarf, gave him pause. "Bilbo," Thorin repeated, and again, he hesitated and Bilbo wondered just what it was Thorin could be so wary to say to him.

"Yes?" Bilbo encouraged.

"If I had asked," Thorin said, slowly, "Would you have stayed?"

"Would I have stayed?" Bilbo repeated, brow furrowing.

"At Erebor," Thorin clarified, "Would you have stayed with us?"

"Oh." Bilbo chewed his lip, considering. Stayed with the Company at Erebor, stayed amongst Dwarves. "I...I don't really know. It's a lovely place, but it isn't really home for me. Besides, if I had stayed, I'd not have Frodo so I suppose it's best in the end that I left."

Though Bilbo would be a liar if he would have said there were times he didn't imagine that very thing. Erebor had been a glory when Bilbo had seen it, dragon-scarred and battered from years of neglect. He would only wonder at how it must be now under Thorin's ruling hand. He'd missed his friends desperately, of course, he'd…he'd missed Thorin, he could admit to that. Had missed him, would miss him. And perhaps that too was better for Bilbo could only imagine with everlasting dread what might have happened if he'd come to his realization while he'd still been at Erebor. Pining, he thought with a growing sense of misery, was better at a distance.

To his astonishment, Thorin's pipe broke apart in his hand, the pieces scattering at the ground. Thorin swore aloud as hot ash fell across his legs and he dashed it away quickly.

"Oh, dear," Bilbo exclaimed, kneeling down to gather the bits of it up. "I don't believe I've ever seen a pipe fall apart like that."

"Leave it," Thorin said, and Bilbo froze, for the ragged edge to his voice was raw with hurt.

"Oh, I didn't...I mean, Erebor is magnificent, I meant no slight!" Bilbo said frantically, cursing his thoughtlessness. Thorin had given up so much in his quest for Erebor, lost his nephews and heirs, Kili and Fili's laughter forever silenced, nearly lost his own mind in the end, and here Bilbo had dismissed the idea of staying there as if Thorin had offered him a room in a woodshed.

"And I take none. I understand. Home is precious to us all, wherever it may be." Thorin inhaled, slowly, and gestured Bilbo aside impatiently when he would have handed him the broken pieces to his pipe. "I said leave it."

"But-" Bilbo knelt on the ground at Thorin's feet, staring up him in confusion, "Was that all? That was the question you wanted answered?"

Thorin only shook his head impatiently. "You told me once that you would leave the Shire before you allowed anyone to take Frodo from you."

"I would," Bilbo said and that was a question easily answered. "No one is taking my boy from me, no matter their intentions."

Thorin nodded, slowly, "Aye, I know how fierce you can be. If that were ever to happen, you are both always welcome at Erebor. You know this, do you not?"

"I…yes, of course," Bilbo agreed, and he laughed weakly, "After my grocery bill this week, you'd have to put up with us for at least a month."

Thorin did not reply. With gentleness that Bilbo thought most would not suspect he possessed, Thorin raised a hand to Bilbo's cheek, ran a broad finger down the smoothness before cupping it in his large palm. A warm flush rose there, worsening when Thorin leaned in and pressed a kiss to Bilbo's forehead, his beard scraping softly, and the aglet at the end of it tickled against Bilbo's nose.

"You come to us," Thorin whispered and Bilbo could not move, his heart pounding as Thorin pressed his nose into his hair, inhaling deeply. "The both of you, come to Erebor, do you understand me?"

"Of course," Bilbo said, softly, sure that he now understood. Thorin had been so desperate for Bilbo not to lose Frodo, of course he would be eager to offer them a place if they needed it. Gently, he slipped his hand beneath the damp, silken fall of Thorin's hair, cupping the nape of his neck and hushing him softly as Thorin let out a soft, choked sound. His own trembling hand shifting to mimic Bilbo's, broad fingers tangling in the curls as he pressed their foreheads together. "Of course," Bilbo repeated, gently, "But we're quite fine here, I promise. Frodo and I will be fine, you'll see. Hobbits belong in the Shire."

A soft gust caressed Bilbo's face as Thorin exhaled, his breath sweetened with pipe weed as he murmured, "Of course you do. This is your home, after all."

He leaned back a fraction and for a moment Bilbo was caught in a foggy memory, mostly lost in the wallow of alcohol but there was still the fall of rain around them and deep blue of Thorin's eyes. His mouth looked very soft and so terribly close, and almost Bilbo leaned in, reaching for what he had been once denied. Then Thorin stood and turned his back to where Bilbo still knelt.

"Good night," Thorin told him, quietly, and he strode away, leaving Bilbo to wallow on the muddy ground in the swell of his own confusion.

* * *

><p>end chapter 16<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

Bilbo didn't know how long he stayed there, kneeling beneath the tree. Long enough that the dampness from the earth began to seep through his trousers, leaving wet patches at his knees for Bilbo to frown over, though he paid it less mind than he did the pipe still in his hands.

The stem was broken clean off the bowl and Bilbo could see that it was not repairable, or at least not by him. He tucked the pieces into his pipe bag anyway; perhaps if he asked around, there might be someone in the Shire who could mend it. Bilbo sighed, rubbing his thumb between his eyes where a growing ache was rising. If only everything were as simple as mending a broken pipe.

A chill was starting to creep into the air, drawing a shiver from him. Bilbo gave into it and went back inside. The door hinge was well-oiled and it had never creaked, though Bilbo had never felt quite as much like he was sneaking into his own home as he did that that moment.

In the front hallway, Thorin and Dwalin were both standing, and while Dwalin had a firm hand clasped on Thorin's shoulder, it was Frodo who was in Thorin's arms. Frodo had both his own little arms wrapped tight around Thorin's neck, probably close to strangling him with his grip though Thorin did not seem inclined to offer protest. He had one hand on the back of Frodo's head, large enough that it nearly covered it, and the other arm looped under his bottom to hold him up.

Faintly, Bilbo could hear Thorin murmuring to the boy, too quietly to be understood and Frodo nodded, his nose buried in Thorin's neck. The sight drew a smile to his face and not simply because Frodo seemed much soothed. Thorin could use a bit of soothing yet himself, Bilbo supposed.

He glanced at Dwalin, readily sharing his smile only to falter at Dwalin's expression. It was as vicious a glare as Bilbo had ever seen cast his way from Dwalin and Bilbo only stood half-in and half-out the door, utterly bewildered. With a last curl of his lip, Dwalin strode back into the sitting room, Thorin at his heels, and Bilbo gave up trying to puzzle it out and did not quite follow them. He only peered around the entryway, squinting through the fire-lit dimness.

Thorin had settled into the chair he'd taken as his own, Frodo curled up into his lap and his quiet words slowly became a song, hardly more than a gentle hum. It was not a song Bilbo knew and he leaned against the wall by the entryway, just out of sight, closing his eyes as he listened.

The words were too soft to pick out or perhaps it was not in a tongue Bilbo knew, and the melody was one of lulling nighttime, soothingly tender in the Thorin's low tones. When Bilbo looked into the room again, Frodo was asleep, his cheek pillowed against Thorin's chest.

For a time they sat together, Frodo curled up against him and Thorin still humming, hardly louder than a breath. Then he took Frodo up in his arms and cradled him gently as he carried him.

Bilbo hardly had a chance to step back, scrambling into the kitchen and he could only hope Thorin hadn't seen his ridiculousness. Hiding in his own home and from what? Oh, this entire mess was making his head ache worse than any ale could manage.

Distantly, he heard the click of a door, Thorin laying Frodo to bed, he supposed, and Bilbo waited in the kitchen, uncertain as to whether he was hiding or simple waiting for Thorin to return to the sitting room so he might join him. In the end; it didn't matter, Thorin did not return and Bilbo finally stepped hesitantly into the sitting room, warily sitting across from Dwalin.

He was whittling at a piece of wood, if the fierce way he was scraping at it could be called anything as gentle as mere whittling. There was a cloth laid over his lap to catch the shavings, something that surprised Bilbo, though he was grateful for the thoughtfulness.

"And what's wrong with you now?" Bilbo sighed, rubbing at his eyes. Somehow, he seemed destined to deal with grumpy Dwarves today.

Dwalin did not answer; a peel of wood rising up from his knife and fluttering to his lap was the end of it.

"Oh, come now," Bilbo said, a touch impatiently. His trousers still felt damp at the bottom and the knees and he'd like a hot bath and a cool drink, preferably in that order. "The two of you seem to have made up, just what did I do in incur your wrath?"

"Always knew Thorin was a fool," Dwalin said abruptly. He twisted his knife sharply and Bilbo didn't wonder that he was imaging using it on something other than wood.

"Were you going somewhere with that or just making conversation?" Bilbo asked politely, then blinked when he was abruptly skewered by another hard glare.

"Aye, he's been a fool," Dwalin told him bluntly. Another curl of wood fluttered down, the knife scraping viciously. "Didn't expect that you'd be one as well and a coward on top of that."

Bilbo's mouth dropped open in surprise, "That's a terrible thing to say!"

"It is," Dwalin agreed, "Terrible to say and terrible that it is true." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping viciously against the floor and Bilbo winced, fully expecting an ugly mark on his floor. With a quick flick of his wrist, Dwalin dusted his wood shavings into the fire, knife shoved into his boot before he strode off, tossing gruffly over his shoulder, "Good night, burglar."

"Good night," Bilbo said automatically and in another moment, he was alone by the fireplace, and though its glow was steady and warm, Bilbo felt chilled nonetheless.

He took to his bed that night, freshly bathed and comforted as much as the single glass of wine he'd allowed himself could manage, and as he snuggled into the blankets, he made a grim promise that two Dwarves were going to be having a chat with him tomorrow, and whether it was about Balin's clever plans or the Blue Mountains or Gudrún, or even the way Dwalin had taken a fancy to the Gamgees, Bilbo was quite sure he didn't care. There would be talking and he'd be sending Frodo out to play with his friends while they did it; the lad had learned quite enough interesting language in the past few days, no need to add to his vocabulary,

* * *

><p>It was the quiet sound of weeping that woke him, crying that struggled to be hidden and yet, still shook his bed, low whimpering that was thick with tears and Bilbo rolled towards it before he was even quite awake, tugging Frodo's small body into his arms, mumbling gentle reassurance.<p>

When Frodo had first arrived at Bag End, he'd woken almost every night to nightmares; at first hiding in own room, huddled beneath the blankets as he cried and with coaxing and reassurances, Bilbo had encouraged the lad to come to him when his nighttime fears overwhelmed him. Losing his parents was a hard blow and a nightmare or two was certainly to be expected; Bilbo had no doubt that Lobelia hadn't offered much in the way of compassion.

"It's all right, now," Bilbo hushed, sleepily, resting his cheek on Frodo's tousled head. "It's just fine, I'm here for you, lad."

"S'not," Frodo blubbered out, burying his wet face into Bilbo's neck and he resolutely did not think about what it was wet with. "Why, Uncle Bilbo?"

"Why, what?" Bilbo coaxed, softly, trying not to put words into the boy's mouth. He could never truly explain to him why his parents died, but he would hardly shy away from trying.

To his surprise, Frodo squirmed away, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes. Uselessly, for more tears simply fell in their place, his large blue eyes awash with them. In his hand, he had a toy of some sort, clutched tightly against his chest in one small fist. "Why did they have to go?" Frodo wailed, fresh tears flooding down his round cheeks. "I wanted them to stay! I love them!"

Bilbo sighed, softly, knuckling at his own sleepy eyes as he tried to think of a gentle way to explain. "Sometimes people have to go," Bilbo told him, softly. "Even when we love them, no matter how much we love them, they can't stay with us."

Frodo's chin lifted in a familiar stubborn tilt. "We could have gone with them. They didn't have to go alone, we could have gone!"

"Oh, Frodo," Bilbo pressed his fingers against his lips, struggling for words, "I'm sorry, my boy, it simply doesn't work that way."

"It could!" Frodo insisted, and at least his tears were drying up in the face of stubbornness, "I could learn to ride a pony."

"…a pony?" Bilbo repeated, a touch blankly. He wondered if he wasn't still a bit asleep. "Well…I…yes, I suppose you could learn to ride a pony, but I'm not quite sure what that has to do with anything."

And Frodo had been spending entirely too much time around Dwarves if he'd learned a look that scathing. "So that we can go with them!" Frodo said, as though it were perfectly obvious. "Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin ride ponies, we'd have to have our own. You told me, you have to have ponies to adventure." Another tear trickled down his nose and Frodo sniffed it away noisily, "But they aren't adventuring, they have to go home."

Confusion was shifting, niggling its way into cold realization, and abruptly Bilbo was not at all sleepy, "Frodo," Bilbo said, slowly, "Did Thorin and Dwalin tell you they are leaving today?"

"No," Frodo said, unhappily, and surge of relief stuttered back down as he added, "They left this morning. They told me I couldn't come with them. They said I need to stay with you." Fresh tears came, spilling down his cheeks as Frodo held out his toy.

It was a wooden soldier, Bilbo realized numbly, smoothing a finger down the freshly carved wood, and a decent match to the ones that Frodo's father had given him. This one was much finer, a Dwarf soldier in full armor with a strong axe in his hands and Bilbo could see the minute detail; there was a nail on each tiny finger and his fierce expression would cast fear in the hearts of any stuffed toy that dared to challenge him. Bilbo had no doubt that this soldier would not wobble when it stood.

Frodo took it back with a wretched sob, clutching it tightly as he wept, "I want to stay with you Uncle Bilbo, I love you, but I loved them, too!"

"They…" Bilbo whispered, trailing off. He pushed off his blankets in something like a daze, hardly noticing the morning chill of the floor against his feet as he walked out of his bedroom. Bag End was eerily silent, only his own footsteps in the early gray light seeping in through the windows, and Frodo's behind him, his quiet sniffles seemed as if they should echo.

Bilbo walked down the hallway, a hard knot in his throat but he could see even from here that the guestroom doors were opened. Within, they were empty, beds made, although one was done neater than the other, not so much as a lost sock tucked into a corner. Completely, utterly empty, hardly a shred of evidence left to say who'd been staying here the past few days, and Bilbo caught himself picking a long strand of dark hair from the pillowcase, twining it absently around his knuckles as he walked back out.

Distantly, he could still hear Frodo's occasionally hiccupping sob, the boy right at his heels as Bilbo wandered back down the hallway aimlessly. They'd gone, then, without even a word of goodbye or…or even gratitude to a host. Thorin and Dwalin had woken Frodo to say their goodbyes, or perhaps they hadn't, perhaps the lad had simply caught them going out the door. Either way, they'd not bothered with Bilbo, left him to sleep while they'd gone and Bilbo was once again without Dwarves in his life.

His feet carried him to his study, allowed him to sit in the chair he preferred for writing and every bone in Bilbo's body groaned as he sat, as though in the past moments he'd aged. His book was on his desk, the pages orderly and his pens lined up neatly beside the pot of ink, eager for him to take them up again and write of his adventures. He hadn't touched it in a couple of days, Bilbo realized, basking in the presence rather than the memory of Dwarves, and they had left, left him without so much as a warm goodbye.

His eyes ached as he stared blindly at the book and Bilbo looked away, only to freeze as his gaze caught on the map, Thorin's map, the evidence of his last bit of burglary still where Thorin had set it when he'd told Bilbo to keep it.

Bilbo blinked hard, staring at that fragile piece of parchment as he remembered stealing it. Kneeling in that tent with Thorin, surrounded by the stink of his blood while Thorin asked through cracked lips for his forgiveness.

He'd thought Thorin was going to die right in front of him. He'd thought Thorin would die just as his nephews had, that he would bleed out his life as Bilbo could only watch helplessly. Bilbo had stolen that map without a thought, clutched at it where it had been tucked beneath his shirt, and he'd never thought about just why he'd had to have it. But he had, the idea of leaving it had been nigh on unbearable, and he might have fought anyone who'd tried to take it from him, then, tried to steal from him the last fragment of Thorin he'd ever thought to possess.

He was never going to see him again, Bilbo realized slowly. Any of the others in the Company might choose to knock on his door anytime they liked, and they might spend a day, a week, a month cozied up in his guestroom while they enjoyed his cooking. But Thorin would not, could not. Thorin was a King, he could not simply choose to take a little holiday, he needed Balin to come up with clever plans for him to escape from his responsibilities and Bilbo was never going to see him again. Something he rather thought he'd come to terms with some time ago.

Until this, until now; until he'd had Thorin in his pantry and in his life again, for such a terribly short amount time. The map still sat before him, a silent reminder of not only an adventure but of a single day when Bilbo thought he'd lost…something. There was a soiled spot in one corner of it, smudging the very tip of the dragon's wing and Bilbo knew that was from where he'd tried to clean away a heavy droplet of Thorin's blood.

A bit unsteadily, Bilbo rose to his feet, the odd feeling of still being in a dream carrying him through Bag End and everywhere, he could see Thorin.

Thorin as he'd just arrived, standing at his doorway, that sweet, faint smile curving his mouth, Thorin, crouching down when he'd first met Frodo, his solemn greeting to a little Hobbit child. Thorin, returning from the marketplace, laden with packages and stories of how the grocers had not precisely taken to Dwalin, Thorin, sitting with Frodo in his lap as they triumphantly finished their puzzle.

Thorin trying on new clothing at Mungo's, bare-chested at Bag End as he looked after a drunken Dwalin or just after bathing, his fierce scowl at Ferdinand for his impertinent staring, Thorin, as he brandished his sword, as he smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners and that smile had been for Frodo so often, as often as it had been for Bilbo. Thorin as he had danced for Bilbo alone, in an empty tent with a soft tune lively on his lips.

Thorin peeling carrots grimly in his kitchen, on his knees in the garden, and was there anywhere in Bag End that he wouldn't be haunted by memories of Thorin, any place in Hobbiton that Bilbo would not see him standing, sitting, simply being?

He was everywhere, every place Bilbo turned.

Except that he wasn't. And would never be again.

Bilbo was running into his bedroom before he even knew what he was doing, caught a sense of sheer disbelief as he realized he was skinning into yesterday's trousers, not even bothering with a waistcoat as he stuffed his billowing nightshirt into it, snapping his bracers over his shoulders with enough force that he winced. It hardly stopped him, not that tiny fragment of pain and Frodo was yet at his heels, tears drying as he watched Bilbo in confusion.

"Come on, then, my boy," Bilbo said to him with a hint of impatience, grabbing up his hand and Frodo, bless him, caught on quickly, hurrying at Bilbo's behest to the door. "Let's see how fast you can run, shall we?"

"Yes!" Frodo cheered happily, his sadness melting away like a cloud beneath the midmorning sun. Thank heavens there was only one main road out Hobbiton and if they'd only left that morning, it was likely they'd still be on it.

Bilbo walked out his front door with Frodo at his side, put a foot on the road, and together they ran down the winding paths through Hobbiton, running towards whatever lay on the other side.

* * *

><p>As luck would have it, Frodo was a faster runner than Bilbo, darting ahead and then back again while Bilbo puffed along behind him. It was a terrible shame he'd not stayed as lean as his adventures had left him, and it was true enough that he'd had to let out his waistcoat in the past year. Determination was a fine enough motivator and he ran on after Frodo, adrenaline-giddy as they finally made their way to the main road.<p>

Only to find it empty for some way and Bilbo could only stagger onward, Frodo hardly lagging as they went. There was a burning in his lungs and his side ached abominably, and Bilbo wondered wretchedly if perhaps Frodo had wept for some time before waking him or perhaps Thorin and Dwalin had ridden out of Hobbiton with all haste, left miles and miles behind them as they galloped on until their ponies were foamy with sweat and wearied.

Hope was steadily dwindling, spots of exhaustion were starting to waver in his vision and then Bilbo saw them; not Thorin and Dwalin but an entire troop of Dwarves in full traveling armor, bristling with swords, axes, and armor, and there was a host of gossip for the Shire. Apparently, there _was_a herd of Dwarves roaming the countryside.

Frodo never hesitated, even took up speed as he dashed towards them before Bilbo could grab him, the feet he had yet to grow into carrying him with darting haste.

"Wait!" Frodo cried, breathless, and Bilbo felt a hot moment of white-eyed panic as the Dwarves startled, and the bright ringing sound of swords clearing scabbards was loud even over the shuffling pony hooves.

"_HOLD!_" Roared over any racket even as Bilbo struggled for enough breath to shout out his own warning, to Frodo, and he was going to cuff that boy on the ear for running up on them that way.

There was no time for it, for Dwalin was already on the ground, scooping Frodo up into his strong arms and his own bellow carried through the grove, "If I catch even one of you pointing any of those pig-stickers at this lad, you'll be trying to claw it out of your own arse all the way back to Erebor!"

A bit colorful, perhaps, but Bilbo was grateful for the sentiment as he staggered up next to them, clutching his aching middle as he leaned over and braced a hand on his knee. Perhaps now it was his turn to nearly die, he wondered, for his heart was hammering as if it were fit to burst, his lungs raw and aching.

Through watering eyes, he saw a pair of familiar boots come up next to him at the side of a pony; they were still resting quite firmly in the stirrups and Bilbo could only imagine Thorin's expression, irritation, perhaps, that he had seen before at the beginning of a much different adventure. Anger, possibly, confusion, likely, and when Bilbo finally managed to raise his head enough to see, his heart sank, for all Thorin's face offered was blank coolness, one brow raised in query.

Words, yes, words would be a good thing, and as soon as he could breathe again, Bilbo was going to offer them.

"You—" Bilbo tried only to subside into a coughing fit. He took another harsh breath, another, and tried not to let the pony's impatient shifting goad him. "You have a terrible habit of leaving without saying goodbye," Bilbo managed, croakily.

Thorin looked down at him, as yet inscrutable. "We did not wish to overstay our welcome."

"Oh, bother on that!" Bilbo cried, scowling at him furiously, "You weren't afraid of my welcome when you came."

"I came for a reason," Thorin snapped, "I had my answer and so it was time for us to return home. I have responsibilities that I've kept waiting long enough."

"Oh, indeed!" Bilbo shouted, and for all that his voice was little more than a rasp, a stir of uneasiness went through the other Dwarves. None of them were familiar, all of them young and watching the display before them with wide eyes. Well, they'd simply have to enjoy the show because Bilbo for one was quite sick of it all, snapping out, "Maybe if you'd care to be straightforward for once! Are you a Dwarf or not? Elves might play riddles and games, and you are certainly no Elf because even a game would be preferable to you running away from me!"

From the low murmur that rounded the group, Dwarves had grown no fonder of Elves in the past few years and Bilbo had come quite close to calling him a coward himself with that. Thorin's darkened expression only confirmed it. In one smooth movement, Thorin was off the pony and the storm of anger on his face was as thrilling as it was nerve-wracking, and Bilbo's nerves had already been well-wracked this morning as it was.

He seemed to catch himself just as he came boot to toe with Bilbo, visibly taking a sharp breath and it gave Bilbo a moment to simply see him, drink in the sight and it was one, even as visibly upset as he was. Thorin, whom he might never have seen again, was standing right before him. Dressed finer than he had been since he'd arrived at Bag End, Mungo's meddling aside, and for all that he was obviously in traveling clothes, they were as rich and fine as one might expect from…from a King and his braids were intricately woven, threaded with elegant beads that Bilbo had not seen before, another braided carefully into his beard. Silver to match the silver in his hair and his cloak was as blue as his eyes.

"I ran?" Thorin glowered down at him, oblivious to Bilbo greedily taking in the sight of him. "You accuse me of running away when you've done nothing else since the very beginning! You ran from Erebor ere I had hardly even left my sickbed. It took me years to find the chance to come after you and when I came, you-" He made a frustrated sound, tearing a hand through his hair. "You've done nothing but run from me!"

"All right," Bilbo said unsteadily, hunching inward, for that much was certainly true. "That. That's fair. I did leave without saying my own goodbyes."

"Nothing about this is fair!" Thorin shouted, oblivious to the stares of his companions, "I have offered you myself, my home, my very heart and you want none of it! Tell me, Master Baggins, what is it that you _do_ want?"

"I...you never..." Bilbo sputtered, helplessly, "I should think I would remember if you'd offered me any of that!"

"Then perhaps you have a very poor memory," Thorin growled, low and through gritted teeth, "How much clearer can I be? I told you, I came here—"

"To ask me a question, yes, that much I heard!" Bilbo retorted, because prettiness was not about to calm all his temper. "Questions that were as clear as dirty dishwater, I think! A question, indeed!"

"Aye, and I did. I had but one question," Thorin said, and his sudden weariness pulled at Bilbo's heart. "And I had my answer. It was time for me to return home."

"Oh, do you? Do you have an answer?" Bilbo demanded, hoarsely, "Because you might have liked it better if you'd started by asking the right question!"

Whatever thin patience Thorin had managed to dredge up from his rapidly emptying supply vanished like a wisp of mist and he shouted back, his voice echoing in a roar around the grove, and goodness, there was a chance they'd heard that back in Hobbiton. "Perhaps you'd care to tell me precisely which question you wanted to hear!"

"No, I think it's my turn to ask a question for once," Bilbo said tartly, then hesitated, swallowing back aching fear, for hadn't he just run all this way? He had and it was not simply for a chance to say goodbye, he could admit to that. "Why are you here, why did you even come to Hobbiton?"

"Why else would I come?" Thorin's fierce anger melting into bewilderment and there was such hurt in it that Bilbo ached to hear it. Was he truly that oblivious? That blind? "Why else would I be here? I came for you."

Oh. Bilbo closed his eyes and his quivering knees nearly spilled him to the ground. He hadn't thought, had he, he hadn't truly believed and yet…and yet, hadn't he suspected that answer all along? Doubted it, yes, could hardly believe that it might be true but. He'd known. He'd always known.

Honestly, Bilbo was starting to suspect Dwalin was right. Perhaps they were both a bit dim.

"Oh," Bilbo said, weakly, aloud, and he swayed again, leaning into the strong, large hands that caught his shoulders and held him up.

"You had your question," Thorin said, raggedly, "Now perhaps you'd be kind enough to tell me what I should have asked."

"You said, you asked me, 'Would you have stayed with us'," Bilbo told him, softly, "But what you meant was, what you should have asked was, 'Would I have stayed with you'."

Thorin blinked, slowly, his hands tightened, his broad thumbs digging not-quite painfully into Bilbo's shoulders. His voice was a low rasp as he whispered, a hushed little sentence for Bilbo alone, "Would you have stayed in Erebor, with me?"

"I don't know," Bilbo told him with pained honesty, reaching up to lay his own hand across one of Thorin's, sliding his fingers between and linking their hands loosely. "I can't look back at then, knowing what I know now, and decide. If I hadn't returned, I wouldn't have Frodo. So if you're asking me if I would change my decision then no, I wouldn't. But you're still asking the wrong questions because that's hardly the one you want answered. Whether or not I would have stayed doesn't really matter anymore, does it?" He gave the hand in his grasp a gentle squeeze, "Stop thinking of the past and simply say it. Offer it to me again; I promise you, I'll hear this time."

The hand at his shoulder ghosted upward, sliding up his neck to curve around his nape and Bilbo was already leaning into the touch, welcoming the gentle press of Thorin's forehead against his own, even as he pushed his own hand beneath the heavy fall of dark hair, rubbing gentle circles against the tender skin at Thorin's nape with his thumb.

_You aren't a coward,_ Bilbo thought at him fiercely, _you aren't, so ask me!_ He only crooned wordlessly at Thorin's quiet groan, petting at his hair, his hand, as Thorin took a breath and spoke.

"Will you come to Erebor with me? Will you and Frodo come to stay with me, live with my people, with me, by my side? Stay with me," Thorin said, voice cracking and he was no longer asking but begging. "Come back with me, both of you. Frodo and you, come to Erebor. With me."

"You want the both of us to come with you?" Bilbo repeated softly and something in his chest that was neither indigestion nor exhaustion thrilled to hear it, his heart thumping loudly in his ears for an entirely different reason.

"I do," Thorin agreed and he leaned back a fraction, his eyes blue and unwavering on Bilbo's face.

Bilbo only laughed aloud and if it was a bit watery, he'd have to be forgiven, before he demanded, quite loudly, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place!"

"I—" Thorin began, astounded, "You—" He struggled for a long moment, sputtering for words that did not seem to exist, before he finally broke off and his laughter seemed equally pained as it was humored.

"It would have saved a great deal of time," Bilbo insisted, a touch sulkily. But perhaps not, or at least, not in the way Bilbo meant because would he have said yes two days ago? Three? They had only been in his home for five nights, Bilbo realized, and in that short time they'd turned his life upside-down. Perhaps he was getting better at resisting; the last time Dwarves had landed on his doorstep, he'd hardly lasted a night.

Thorin's face was still so terribly close to his own, his hair falling in silky tendrils over Bilbo's wrists and his mouth, that oh, so tempting mouth was right in front of Bilbo. Soft, ruddy lips curved in an inviting smile, and Bilbo did not resist, tightened his grip on the back of Thorin's neck as he rose up on his toes and finally took his taste.

His mouth was soft and still beneath Bilbo's own, Thorin stiffening under his hands, and for one brief, endless moment, Bilbo could taste the bitter salt of his heart in his throat because he'd been wrong, oh, of course he'd been wrong, this wasn't what Thorin had meant at all and he was a fool; a fool and a dreamer and so terribly wrong.

And then that moment ended and Bilbo let out a muffled squawk as a strong arm circled his waist and he was abruptly lifted right from his feet, toes dangling as Thorin slanted his head and took his lips with hot intensity, groaning aloud as he clutched Bilbo against him and devoured his mouth as though he'd been waiting a lifetime for it.

Oh, gracious, Bilbo thought hazily, or perhaps he didn't think it at all. His thoughts were scattered, strewn across the landscape like so many fallen leaves. Thorin's mouth was hot, flavored with the bitter tang of the pipeweed he favored, and his mouth was frantic, pressing hard kisses to Bilbo's with fevered eagerness, his beard tantalizingly abrasive as it rubbed against Bilbo's bare cheeks.

He did want this, Bilbo realized triumphantly, Thorin wanted him, wanted this, and every flirtatious word or look that Bilbo had dismissed had been about this, he hadn't been wrong at all and…and Thorin's tongue was investigating the seam of his lips, the arm that wasn't tight about Bilbo's waist was cupping the back of his head, fingers laced into his hair and good heavens, there were at least twenty dwarves, including Dwalin, and_Frodo_ standing nearby watching this.

"Wait," Bilbo said, or tried to say; it was rather difficult to speak when a large Dwarf had you off your feet and was kissing you as though to steal your very breath. "Wait," Bilbo tried again, and that only allowed entrance for an eager tongue, curling against his own, inviting him to play and almost, almost Bilbo weakened, flicking his own tongue back against it, over and under in a graceful little swirl. Thorin's moan rumbled through the both of them, a jolt that reminded Bilbo rather sharply that this was a bit lewder than he'd intended.

His own hands were tangled up in the length of Thorin's hair, wound tight with silken strands of it. He gave it a bit of a hopeful tug then a rather firm pull, to no avail; Thorin was voracious in his kisses, teeth nipping softly, tantalizingly at Bilbo's bottom lip, and he was breathing as if he were going to die.

"Now, stop it!" Bilbo managed to snap out, wrenching away at the same moment he gave Thorin's hair a mighty yank. On one hand, it worked, though perhaps better than Bilbo had intended for Thorin very nearly dropped him, his arm loosening so abruptly that Bilbo staggered on his feet and almost ended up toppled to the ground. Two large hands caught his shoulders, steadying him, and Bilbo looked up to see Thorin's face not far from his own, his lips berry-red and glistening damp and oh, hadn't something just like that started this whole thing?

Only, this time his mouth shaped words, formed a soft, worried, "I'm sorry, I did not intend-"

Silencing him again with his own mouth would be the lovelier option, but Bilbo's haze had eased enough for him to be terribly aware two dozen or so shocked eyes staring at the both of them. Or less, since Dwalin seemed entirely bored with the entire affair and Frodo was currently sporting a large, tattooed hand as an impromptu sort of blindfold.

Bilbo settled for pressing his fingertips against Thorin's mouth, hushing his sober apology as Bilbo told him, low, "I did intend and I'd be happy to intend again. Somewhere else, perhaps? With less of an audience?"

Thorin smiled beneath his fingers and in answer, caught up Bilbo's hand in his own to press a kiss into the palm of his hand. Bilbo's caught his breath at the abrasive tickle of his beard, prickling against the tender skin and reminded himself that Thorin's guards were still gawping at them, swords drawn, though the tips of them were scraping the dirt, unheeded.

A curt word snarled out in Khuzdûl made Bilbo jolt, though it wasn't Thorin who had spoken being that he was currently only gazing at Bilbo, the blue of his eyes brilliant in the rising light of day. Dwalin had snapped out something that sent a startled roil of movement through the young guard, clattering armor and the clang of swords returned clumsily to their sheaths. Each of them turned on heel in what might possibly have been a neat formation once upon a time, before their King had taken up kissing Hobbits out in the daytime, before the sun and innocent eyes, alike.

"Mister Dwalin, I can't see anything!" Frodo complained, trying to pry Dwalin's hand from over his eyes.

"Aye, that's the idea, lad," Dwalin told him, dryly. "And both your uncles will thank me for it later."

"I'll thank you right now," Bilbo muttered at the same moment Thorin said, sourly, "I suggest you don't hold your breath."

"Holding it only gets it choked out of me," Dwalin called out dryly, "Now that you're both sorted, can we go home already?"

"Oh!" Bilbo covered his mouth with his hand, shaking his head, "I couldn't possibly leave right now, I…I'm not even dressed!" Honestly, he hadn't even given a thought to it until now and here he was, standing before Thorin and Dwalin and his Guards and the heavens above in his nightshirt, the collar gaping and billowing fabric bunched up around his waistband.

"I think you look fine," Thorin murmured, hooking a finger into his collar and Bilbo's snort of outrage was utterly drowned out by Dwalin loud, complaining groan.

"Oh, by Durin's bollocks, I may as well put on short pants and trot around in my bare feet!" Dwalin grumbled, "We'll be here another year."

"You weren't even here a week!" Bilbo informed him tartly, batting away Thorin's hand as it seemed entirely too interested in the line of his collarbone, particularly where it wasn't peeking through his opened nightshirt. "I'm not about to go rushing out my front door and leave my house again like before. I may not own an entire mountain but I do need to make some arrangements!"

Frodo slipped free from Dwalin's grip, tugging at his belt until Dwalin stopped grumbling and gave him narrow squint. Frodo beamed up at him, eagerly, asking with anxious enthusiasm, "You'll stay and help, won't you, Mister Dwalin?"

Bilbo was certain that Dwalin's snarling sigh was heard across the Shire, all the way to the North Farthing, "Aye, lad, I suppose I must at that. Kelis!" he bellowed, and one of the guards startled, turning just enough to see Dwalin.

"Sir?" he asked, warily, and Bilbo would have risked serious injury had he tried to hold back his snort of laughter at hearing such a young, proud looking Dwarf calling Dwalin 'sir'.

Dwalin turned his baleful glare to Bilbo before he told Kelis, "You and the others go make camp outside of the Shire, aye? Don't be wandering about, the Folk here are faint of heart—"

"Faint of heart!" Bilbo said, indignantly, and even the gentle warmth of Thorin's hand settling on the back of his neck didn't soothe that injury.

"Some of them," Dwalin amended, "Right delicate. Don't be startling them, there's a few that are liable to shove a pitchfork in a dark place. And don't take any moonshine they might offer you, if you treasure your head or your stomach."

"Yes, sir," Kelis repeated, doubtfully, and Dwalin gave him a firm slap on the back.

"There you go, lad, never you fear, I'll have a hand or an eye on his Highness."

"Hopefully not in that order," Thorin murmured, then raised his voice, "Captain Kelis, you may take Dwalin's word as my own. We'll meet you in—" he gave Bilbo a quizzical look.

"Three days?" Bilbo offered, hesitantly.

"Three days," Thorin repeated, "Perhaps longer, I'll send Gudrún to you if that is the case."

"Yes, sir!" Kelis, or Captain Kelis, it seemed, was a great deal more respectful to Thorin, bowing deeply before he barked a curt word to the other Dwarves, the lot of them mounting their ponies, though Bilbo was sure he saw a great many curious and doubtful looks being sent his way.

Well, it wasn't as if he weren't used to odd looks.

He waited until they were out of earshot before raising an eyebrow to Dwalin, "Sir?"

Dwalin snorted, "Can't get any of them to call me Mister Dwalin; there's no respect from the young these days."

"I call you Mister Dwalin," Frodo piped up, smiling brightly and Dwalin scooped him up, tickling him as the boy squealed.

"That's because you've been brought up proper."

"And you aren't the Captain?" Bilbo wondered aloud, a touch slyly, though he was curious. Thorin's thumb dipping beneath his collar was a bit of a distraction and he was rather close to squirming himself. He could have had this before, Bilbo realized dolefully, thinking of every time Thorin had laid hands on him, every teasing touch.

Distantly, he heard Dwalin bark out a laugh, "Me? I'm no guardsman, I'm the King's bodyguard and a lamentable job it is."

"Is there a difference?" Bilbo managed, his voice breaking and Thorin was dreadfully close, now, standing behind Bilbo, nearly leaning into him, his chin resting atop Bilbo's head and his hands a warm, heavy weight on his shoulders.

"Aye," Dwalin chortled, "Mainly that they have to listen to him. Come on, then, lad, I think it's time we left." He shifted Frodo into one arm, climbing into his pony's saddle with all the lumbering grace of a pregnant cow, to Frodo's shrieking delight, before turning his pony back towards the Shire without a backwards glance to those he left behind.

Though his voice did carry as he told Frodo, "Now, when we get back, you're to show me where they've hidden the cookies, got that?"

The plodding hoof-beats faded and soon there was nothing but the silence of the forest and the heaviness of Thorin breathing so terribly close to his ear. They were alone, without so much as the creaking of an approaching wagon on the road, and Thorin was pressed against his back, his warmth bleeding through their clothes. His hands drifted, sliding down to press lightly against Bilbo's chest, his thumbs tracing Bilbo's collarbone through his thin nightshirt.

"You're trembling," Thorin murmured, a faint rush of damp breath caressing Bilbo's ear and oh, he was, he…he'd been quite taken with kisses and Thorin's mouth had been as sweet as his drunken fantasies had coaxed him into believing it might be. And yet, here they were, alone, and…and…

"You do know I'm not about to tumble you in the dirt, do you not?" Thorin asked, bone-dry, and Bilbo jerked away from him indignantly.

"I should say you aren't!" Bilbo blustered out, and his face was flame-hot, surely his cheeks were brilliantly red. "You…if there's to be any tumbling, it will be in a proper bed, thank you very much!"

And…that wasn't precisely what he'd meant to say, Bilbo was quite sure of it, as what he'd meant to say shouldn't have made Thorin grin in such a wicked fashion. His hand, though, as he laid it against Bilbo's cheek, was gentle. "As lovely as that invitation is, I think it's too soon for any talk of tumbling."

"You started it," Bilbo mumbled, childishly. The hand on his cheek slipped down to a finger beneath his chin and Bilbo only managed a quick breath before Thorin's mouth was on his again, enchantingly soft and lovely and, oh. Bilbo had caught hold of his slim braids without a thought, holding him in with hands and the earnest press of his own mouth when Thorin would have pulled away.

He opened his eyes when Thorin let out a shaky sigh, pressing their foreheads together again as he whispered, low, their lips nearly touching, "You're coming with me."

"We are," Bilbo swallowed, hard, at the terrifying, exhilarating thought of it. "We are."

Thorin nodded, sharply, and then turned away, drawing Bilbo with him in the direction of his pony, standing close by as it cropped the grass. "Then let's get your affairs settled. Before the entire Shire realizes there is, what did you call it? A group of Dwarves roaming wild over the countryside?"

"They didn't seem so terribly wild," Bilbo protested, blushing a little as he realized the only place for him to sit on the pony was Thorin's lap. It was either that or walking, and Bilbo settled in with a little squirm, though he did take in Thorin's low grunt at his wriggling with a smug air.

"They never seem wild in my presence," Thorin told him wryly. "And that is precisely why Dwalin would be a terrible guardsman."

He clicked softly at his pony and it ambled back in the direction of Hobbiton at an easy walk, perhaps to keep Bilbo from bouncing in his precarious seat. His arms were around Bilbo, holding the reins and, hesitantly, Bilbo laid his hands over Thorin's. It was different now, it meant something else entirely, and that would take some getting used to, he supposed.

Thorin's fingers curled around his, gently, and Bilbo took a breath, another, and let himself drift; for this one moment he was without a single care, and he simply wanted Thorin to hold him.

Faintly, he could hear Thorin humming, a low, sweet thrum of song, and he recognized it as the one from the night before. The rain had fled, leaving behind nothing but morning sunshine and Bilbo basked in the gentle warmth of it, mingled with Thorin's warmth behind him as he let song and sway lull him into exhausted sleep.

end chapter


	18. Chapter 18

For all that Bilbo had grown accustomed to riding ponies on his adventures, though rather more on his way home than his first travel to Erebor, he hadn't ridden one since arriving back in Hobbiton. The one he'd brought along with him, Bilbo had sold; much as he had grown fond of Rosemary over their travels together it had seemed needlessly cruel to keep her stabled up when she was used to fresh air. Farmer Maggot had paid a decent coin for her and was kind-hearted enough that Bilbo knew she'd be well cared for and if he'd stopped occasionally on his walks and offered her an apple, well, that was a secret between the two of them.

Thorin's pony was not at all like Rosemary; for one, her bridle had been simple leather and steel bit, and her saddle just cushioned enough that Bilbo's backside wasn't grumbling at him every night. The pony he was currently astride was decked out in blue and silver, the colors of Erebor, ravens were embroidered into the pennants hanging from the reins and inscribed into the leather and Bilbo didn't wonder if the inlays were made of true silver, encrusted with precious gems. The saddle was likely just as imbued, though its comfort was a question Bilbo had no answer for as his backside was currently resting a great deal more on a Dwarf's lap and it was comfort enough for the moment.

Tired as he was from his impromptu run through Hobbiton, and his legs would have stern reprimands for him tonight, Bilbo was sure, it seemed he had lost the art of drowsing while on ponyback. Or perhaps he was simply unaccustomed to a strong Dwarven arm circling his middle as he rode, the occasional press of a cheek against the back of his head, or a broad hand catching his own, holding a fraction too-tightly. Thorin seemed greedy for a touch, any touch, and Bilbo was not inclined to refuse it.

He might have lost this, might never had had it, if not for the devastated tears of a child waking him. The margins of chance in his life seemed precariously thin.

The child in question and his Dwarf had not ridden particularly far ahead and Bilbo straightened in his seat when they met, wincing at Thorin's startled grunt. He nodded at Dwalin and studiously ignored what seemed to be an excruciatingly smug look. Yes, yes, hindsight was quite accurate, and Bilbo was a fool and not at all the clever one.

Turning the past days over in his head, Bilbo was coming to realize with a growing sense of horror that Dwalin had known exactly why they were in Hobbiton the entire time. From his occasional sly comment to his all-too-knowing smirks, Dwalin had _known_. Although if Thorin had been taking his council on this from Dwalin, small wonder they'd floundered through it, Bilbo thought sourly, since his idea of a proper wooing seemed to involve a great deal of drunkenness and talk of backsides. Balin should have sent Thorin along with notes, possibly a chart, or even a detailed letter explaining matters. He seemed to be the only one amongst them with any sense at all and Bilbo was sorrowful he had to include himself in that number.

For heaven's sake, Thorin had sat with him and read him _love poetry_. Had anyone else told Bilbo this woeful tale of courtship gone awry, he would have scoffed at their blindness and possibly given them a thump on the head. Perhaps he should be thanking Dwalin for his restraint.

Although a glance at the large Dwarf found him struggling with an eager Frodo, who was bouncing in the saddle as though they were galloping through a horde of foes, wriggling and straining to see all that was around them, as if the sight of the trees and the path was remarkably different for being three feet higher than they were only moments before. Dwalin's smug grin had been traded for a resignation as he kept Frodo from toppling from the saddle for the third time in as many minutes, and Bilbo sighed out his own contentment, leaning back against Thorin's broad chest, enjoying a shade of his own smugness.

They'd earned a moment of contentment, he supposed.

Indeed, a moment was all they had, and it passed as Hobbiton came into view, for even at a distance Bilbo could see the crowd of Hobbits up at the top of the hill at Bag End, all and sundry had abandoned their gardens or market stalls, housekeeping or baking, whatever it was they were meant to be doing this morning, they were not, because all were at Bag End and from the shouting, Bilbo could only guess that matters were reaching a peak.

"What on Earth," Bilbo muttered, and behind him, Thorin straightened, shifting from a tentative suitor to a tense warrior in the blink of an eye, and though there was no axe in his hand, Bilbo suspected he was quite prepared for any eventuality. Hopefully beheadings would not be amongst them.

"…I will not be stayed by any gardener, Hamfast Gamgee, so remove yourself at once! We all know he's run off again, most everyone here saw it with their own eyes!" Came shrilly out from over the crowd and Bilbo nearly groaned aloud, for that was a voice he knew from his nightmares. Of all people, Lobelia would of course be the head of this lot; Bilbo wondered why he was even surprised. From his perch atop the pony, Bilbo could see over all the gawkers and lookie-loos and standing on his doorstop was Hamfast, hat firmly atop his head and a gardening trowel clutched in his dirty fist.

His normally placid round face was florid red and he shook his betroweled fist at Lobelia in the closest thing to a threat Bilbo could imagine from Hamfast.

"I'll do no such thing!" Hamfast said loudly, propping his other fist on his hip as he glared at Lobelia and the others, "I'll not stand by and watch this foolishness! Not a one of you is stepping foot in Mister Bilbo's home, not as I stand, and that's a fact! So go on off home, the lot of you!"

"Yes, what is going on here?" Bilbo called out and he watched in bemusement the heads of the entire crowd whipping towards him as one, taking in his reappearance and from their shock, Bilbo would have thought they'd seen him rising from the grave itself. "For pity's sake, I've not been gone an hour! All off you, be on your way, you're ruining my garden!"

A truer thing was never said and Bilbo could only gaze sadly at the tattered remains of his herb patch, though his tomatoes had been spared and they'd be ripening soon enough…except he would not be here to see them, would he. Oh, but—Bilbo swallowed hard and set that thought aside, giving each of the Hobbits who were gingerly stepping out of the wreckage of his plants a hard glare, taking his satisfaction in their lowered eyes and wincing shame.

He slipped down from the pony and from Thorin's grasp as smoothly as he could, considering that Thorin seemed less than pleased by it. He shooed Thorin back when he would have followed, opening the gate himself and marched up to the top of the steps. Nearby, there were a couple of hastily discarded bags, their contents spilling out in a disarray of groceries and Bilbo realized Lobelia must have been at the market. She had to have run to Bag End the moment she'd heard about Bilbo's second mad dash through Hobbiton.

Bilbo found he was rather relieved that a Hobbit could not be killed from a glare, for surely the fiery heat of hers would rival that of dragon fire. She opened her mouth and Bilbo never knew what it was she meant to say, for he spoke first, softly, "Be quiet."

High color blossomed in her cheeks, ugly roses of scarlet and her mouth snapped closed, nose lifting. Next to her, Hamfast did not lower his trowel and Bilbo wondered with no small amusement just what he was expecting Lobelia to do. Perhaps tear the very buttons from his waistcoat and dash off? Ah, well, a friend at his side was nothing to mock and Bilbo joined him on the top step, looking down his nose at Lobelia as his knight in a dirty gardening apron stood at the ready.

"Off with you, then," Bilbo jerked his chin at the gate, "I don't expect we'll be seeing each other again for some time, Cousin. Goodbye."

Whatever her temper, when she wasn't in her cups Lobelia was at least wise enough to know when to hold her tongue and she flounced over to gather her groceries, storming off without a word. It gave her a moment's fluster when neither Dwarf would move their ponies out of her way and with a whining huff, she finally managed to skirt them, storming down the pathway.

"Goodbye, Missus Lobelia!" Frodo called brightly after her, only for his wide eyes to have a tattooed hand slapped over them again hastily at the gesture she returned.

"Awful woman," Bilbo muttered, before he turned to Hamfast with a raised brow. His gardener was swiping at his forehead with a bright red handkerchief, cheeks still mottled with his own anger. "Should I even ask for an explanation?"

"Oh, that!" Hamfast shook his head, tutting at the shame of it all. "Folks got no sense sometimes, they don't! I heard about you…" Hamfast made a little walking gesture with his fingers and Bilbo went a touch pink himself, wondering at the picture he and Frodo had made this morning, dashing through Hobbiton without so much as a knapsack, his nightshirt flapping behind him. Small wonder half of Hobbiton thought him mad. "And I came right up here. Thought I ought to mind your garden for a bit and it's as well I did. She'd have had your silver spoons spirited away by tea time, she would, and your forks beside them!" He leaned to peer around Bilbo, taking in Dwalin and Thorin with raised eyebrows. "I take it things sorted themselves after all?"

"What do you—" Bilbo faltered and the warm pink in his cheeks flared to crimson, for it seemed that Hamfast knew as well and Bilbo did not need a second guess at where he'd earned his gossip. It would seem that Dwalin did more than sing lewd ditties when in his cups. Oh, confound it, was there a soul left in Hobbiton who was not aware of his personal business? Though he supposed things became somewhat less personal when all the town had a view.

Hamfast only shrugged, tapping the side of his nose with one finger, "The two of them stopped this morning to say goodbye to me and the missus. You weren't with them."

"No, I—" Bilbo coughed and then Hamfast's words caught. Bilbo spun around, gaping at the pair of Dwarves who were only just dismounting their ponies, gathering what belongings they needed, sorting around Frodo's curious explorations. "You stopped to say goodbye to the Gamgees?" he said, loud in his disbelief.

"Aye, of course, why would we not?" Dwalin grumbled, satchel slung over one arm and Frodo balanced in the other, "Not that I could coax his moonshine recipe from him." He shook his head sadly. "Be quite a popular one in Erebor, I told him, more sought after than gold but he would not be budged."

"As I said, Mister Dwalin, a good homebrew must be brewed at home," Hamfast called down to him and Bilbo could only shudder at the fondness in his voice. "Fine as your mountain surely is, it cannot be a Hobbit hole. You'll have to visit us again, m'lad, the wife and I would have happy to see you."

Dwalin might very well be impervious to glares; the reddened tips of his ears said he was not quite so sanguine about…whatever it was that Hamfast was offering. He tromped up the steps and set Frodo on his feet at the door, ruffling the boy's already mussed curls. "Aye, I might well be happy enough to see you as well. In you go, lad, we've things to manage, or so I've been told." Bilbo didn't bother with surprise as Dwalin added, "Coming in for tea, Master Gamgee? Frodo tells me he's not had a bite to eat yet this morning."

"Oh, don't mind if I do—" The three of them vanished behind the door as Bilbo stood nearby, watching coolly as Thorin gathered his own belongings, tying the pony's reins to the railing and coward he might not be, but he had yet to meet Bilbo's furious gaze.

"I see that your difficulties with goodbyes don't seem to extend to the other Hobbits in the Shire," Bilbo said tartly. The fear from his morning was only yet congealed in his chest, still aching as he thought of waking to Frodo's tears, the realization that Thorin had gone, left him without a word, and—

"I thought we had said our goodbyes," Thorin said, shortly. His own satchel was slung over his shoulder, nearly catching on his sword hilt and Bilbo might have added a sharp word or two if Thorin hadn't taken his arm in a firm grip, pulling him through the door.

Ah, well, this was understandable; he supposed his neighbors had had enough of a show this morning and Thorin would probably not appreciate being put on display while Bilbo shrilled at him like a banshee. As tempting as the idea was, Dwalin would get entirely too much enjoyment from it and Bilbo had given him quite enough entertainment this week.

Less understandable was the fact that Thorin did not let him go in the foyer, hardly pausing to drop his satchel. In fact, his grip tightened as he pulled Bilbo down the hallways, dragging him along as Bilbo sputtered and tripped beside him, yelping aloud as he stubbed a toe and still Thorin did not stop. Not until he reached the door to Bilbo's bedroom and there was hardly a chance for a question much less a protest as Thorin shoved him inside and followed, closing the door with a firm bang behind him.

"What are you—" _Doing_, was what Bilbo was meant to say, blustering out his surprise and temper for he had yet to forgive Thorin for allowing goodbyes to the Gamgees and not him. He was the one who'd fed them this past week, played host to Dwarven appetites and tempers; he was the one who had cared for them, gone on adventures with them. Whatever else they were to become, they were at the least friends and surely he had earned at least a farewell even if Thorin was wroth with him.

Instead, he was given a hard door against his back, nearly knocking the breath from him, broad hands catching hold of his shoulders as a fervent mouth closed over his own. Any protest he might have had was stifled and Thorin's lips might well be soft but his kisses were urgent, bordering on desperate. Their teeth clicked once, painfully, and Bilbo whimpered, wincing at the tiny pain. The soft sound was caught in Thorin's mouth as he shuddered once, then forcibly gentled his touch, catching Bilbo's lower lip between his teeth and sucking gently.

Oh, that was…Bilbo tipped his head up, an offering that Thorin took with a low groan, dragging his mouth over Bilbo's in a rough parody of a kiss. His beard was a delicious abrasion against Bilbo's bare cheeks, the hot, darting flick of his tongue wetting Bilbo's lips an unbearable tease and he caught the tip in his teeth without thinking, biting gently until Thorin made a sound that was nearly a whimper, lovely and sweet and Bilbo realized dimly that he was nearly clawing at Thorin's shirt, both fists twisted in the fine fabric.

A quick press of his tongue between Thorin's thin, bitten lips granted him a taste, of morning tea and bitter pipeweed, each flavor a memory of Thorin, and beneath it something richer, darker, a taste he was only just learning. A taste Bilbo had not known he would relish until a drunken night in the rain and now it was his to steal, and while his skills as a burglar might yet be lacking, this was something he'd be happy to try his luck at thieving many times.

"You—" Thorin moaned , catching Bilbo's face in both large hands to hold him, as if Bilbo's scattered thoughts could possible consider fleeing. Instead, he hooked an ankle behind Thorin's knee, leverage to boost himself a fraction higher, and pushed into Thorin's heated kiss, begging wordlessly for more even as he forced his hands to loosen their grip and instead sank them into the glorious temptation of Thorin's hair.

Long, cool strands tangled around his fingers, knotting into his grip and Thorin keened raggedly against his mouth as Bilbo pulled, holding him as surely as he was held. Thorin's mouth slid against his own in fits and starts, broken tenderness and the edge of teeth, each press of lips as desperate as the last, as though Thorin imagined he might have to steal any kisses he wished while he still could.

"You wished for my goodbyes?" Thorin panted out, harshly, his breath hot as he nuzzled against Bilbo's increasingly sore lips. "You wanted me to offer polite thank you's and a gracious acceptance of an invitation to return, is that what you wanted?"

"I—" Bilbo bit his own tongue as Thorin's mouth abandoned his, his teeth nipping at his jaw instead, leaving a cooling trail of wetness as he followed it to Bilbo's ear and his teeth held no hint of gentleness as they sank into the tender lobe. Bilbo squealed in surprised, the sound muffled against a broad finger set across his lips, though the bite eased instantly, Thorin sucking gently on the tiny wound, soothing it with a flick of tongue.

"You are not answering me," Thorin whispered, low, very close to mocking, and his mouth seared as he slicked his tongue up to the point of Bilbo's ear, drawing the tip between his lips as he whispered, wetly. "Very well, I shall tell you. I left without speaking to you because there was not a gracious word I could have spoken. I left to keep myself from begging you, from falling to my knees and pleading with you to return with me."

"Oh…oh, unfair," Bilbo managed, and he pulled fiercely at Thorin's hair, wishing to look at him because as lovely as his mouth felt, his nimble tongue tracing the inner dips and whorls of his ear, that was perfectly unfair, utterly, for Thorin had not precisely asked him to come along to begin with.

"Unfair," Thorin agreed, "Had I seen you a last time, I would not have been able to resist and I—" He stilled, drawing in a slow, harsh breath, another, and moved to rest his forehead against Bilbo's, shivering with restraint as he whispered, "I have my pride."

"You also have a marvelous gift for understatement," Bilbo muttered, then his eyes flew open as Thorin leaned away from him, one hand braced against the door beside Bilbo's head as he looked down at him with guarded eyes. With his other hand, he cupped Bilbo's face, his broad thumb gentle against Bilbo's lower lip, tracing it even as Bilbo blinked up at him curiously.

"You're coming with me," Thorin said, softly and Bilbo wrinkled his nose.

"I said I was, _we_ are, several times now, in fact," Bilbo pointed out. Whatever Thorin saw in Bilbo's mouth that led him to trace it over and over again with a trembling thumb could not possibly match the urge that rose in Bilbo at the sight of Thorin's kiss-swollen lips, and he rose up on his toes to take them again, eager for another taste. Having had it once, twice now, Bilbo thought giddily that Thorin's mouth could be a treasure of its own.

Only to be thwarted once again as Thorin stepped back from him, as far as Bilbo's grip on his hair allowed. Bilbo stared at him in disbelief, his mouth already watering for the taste of a kiss he was yet again denied. Of all the…it certainly wasn't him who'd leapt against this door and started the entire matter!

Worse yet, Thorin reached up and gently detangled Bilbo's hands, tugging the long strands of his hair loose, though he pressed a soft kiss into the palm of his hand, closing Bilbo's fingers around it.

"You have told me, several times," Thorin agreed, softly, "Perhaps after several more, I shall believe you." Carefully, he guided Bilbo from the door and opened it, stepping through while Bilbo stared after him dumbly, "Are you coming?" Thorin asked, one brow arched, "I believe you said you had a great many things to take care of ere we depart."

"I…yes," Bilbo said, hesitantly, then he lifted his chin determinedly. "Yes, I do!"

Thorin offered him a bow and an 'after you' wave of the hand and Bilbo left the confines of his own bedroom, padding towards the low conversation and laughter in his kitchen. A great many things to do, yes, indeed, and Bilbo would rather not begin them on an empty stomach.

* * *

><p>end chapter 18<p> 


	19. Chapter 19

The warm smells of breakfast led the way to the kitchen and when Bilbo stepped in, Hamfast and Dwalin were at the kitchen table. Bilbo saw with no small relief that Hamfast seemed far more capable in the kitchen than Dwalin. Porridge was ladled out, hot biscuits were fresh in a basket, and Bilbo's stomach gave a longing groan at the sight of it. Though there was one thing was missing from the homey tableau.

"Where is Frodo?" Bilbo asked, glancing around the kitchen as though the lad might hop out of a cupboard with a laugh.

"Off with young Master Samwise," Dwalin said around a mouthful of porridge, ignoring the handful of disapproving glances from all sides. "Think the lads need a bit of time together, aye? Sit down the both of you, you'll strain my neck hovering."

"I believe I should see to the ponies first," Thorin said abruptly and he turned on heel before Bilbo could so much as blink, the door closing quietly behind him. A bit flummoxed, Bilbo sat at the table and he took a bowl of his own from Hamfast without complaint, the porridge swimming with butter and cream as any good Hobbit porridge should.

Luckily, Dwarves seemed to enjoy their porridge much the same, or so Dwalin's bowl would attest. Bilbo supposed he'd find out one way or another in Erebor. The very thought of it sent a thrill of trepidation up his spine. He was going on another adventure, back in the company of Dwarves, and with Frodo besides. Perhaps the gossips weren't so far off when they called him Mad Baggins.

Dwalin gave the door a frown, scooping up another spoonful of porridge as he mumbled, "What did you do to him?"

"I hardly did a thing," Bilbo said tartly, slathering butter on his biscuit with determination.

"Aye, I can tell, he was walking as if he were holding a stone between his knees."

Bilbo scowled and Hamfast's choked off laughter told him there would be no help from that quarter.

Plenty of breakfast was laid out in front of him and tasty as it was, Bilbo ate with an odd reluctance, casting glances at the door and his feet were itching to go through it. If Thorin thought he was wont to run away, then at least lately running after Thorin had become just as common.

Dwalin followed his gaze and shook his head, "Give him a moment to settle himself."

"Why, so he can leap upon his pony again and ride off without a word otherwise?"

"Not likely," Dwalin snorted, "He often takes a moment to settle and think. Talk to me for now, lad, I'm not staying another month while you two sort things out."

"I said I needed three days, not a month."

"True enough, but I wasn't expecting to see either of you for two of those days."

Hamfast swallowed his own mouthful, slurping down half his tea before he said, "If it's a matter of a little privacy, the wife and I would be happy enough to put Dwalin and Frodo up for the night, Mister Bilbo."

"Priv-it's nothing to do at all with privacy!" Bilbo sputtered, ignoring Dwalin's low mutter, "Aye, I'm sure you'd both be delighted to put us up."

"It's nothing like that!" Bilbo said loudly, blushing to the roots of his hair. Honestly, of all conversations that he did not want at his breakfast table, the bedroom habits of any of the occupants were one of them.

"What is it then? Second thoughts, have we?" Dwalin's words were lightly said but his eyes were shrewd. Perhaps Balin hadn't gotten the bulk of the family brains.

"Second thoughts would imply that I had first ones," Bilbo sighed, pushing his bowl aside.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Bilbo, and it's no business of mine," Hamfast said, with an odd gentleness, "But I'm thinking you've been more yourself since they arrived than you have in some time. No, listen to me now," Hamfast hurried on when Bilbo would have interrupted, "Before Frodo came to you, it was as though you'd hardly returned home. You were here, you were, but it was more like you were haunting Bag End than living in it. I tended your garden and Bell tended your house, and it weren't until Frodo came that either of us saw you smiling a bit."

"I smile," Bilbo protested, weakly. "I am perfectly friendly."

"Oh, you are, you are," Hamfast agreed. "Always were. Friendly, neighborly, ready to offer a spot of tea and a tray of nibbles to any and all. But happy? That came along with Frodo and it's even more so now, with him around," Hamfast nodded at the door. "As I understand it, though, he cannot stay, King and all that."

"Aye, he cannot stay," Dwalin agreed, softly. "That's why we came to ask you along."

"He could have made a better job at it," Bilbo sighed, "And no, I am not having second thoughts. I've not really had much of a chance to even think about what I am doing. I can't just run off this time, there's Frodo to think about."

"That lad will do fine in Erebor," Dwalin scoffed, "You'll both be fine, you'll see." He pushed his own bowl aside, rummaging for his pipe and Dwalin nearly had it lit before Hamfast gave him a swat.

"Outside with that!" Hamfast scolded, "We're not to smoke at Mister Bilbo's table."

"Aye, aye," Dwalin grumbled, "The lot of you are worse than my brother." He stood, complaining, as Hamfast led him first to the sink full of dishes, "Go on after him, then," Dwalin said to Bilbo, "He'll be settled by now. Sort things out, or next time I'll lock you in a room together until you do. I've forgotten what my own bed feels like."

Whatever it was that Hamfast murmured to him, Bilbo did not hear, though he did not miss the way Dwalin nearly tripped over his own feet, the redness at the tips of his ears spreading over his bald head.

"Do not want to know," Bilbo reminded himself, "Not in the slightest."

First, though, he was changing into decent clothes. Hobbiton had seen quite enough of his nightshirt for this day.

* * *

><p>By the time Bilbo had changed and combed his hair, his kitchen was empty, Dwalin and Hamfast off to smoke, he supposed, or whatever else they had planned. Bag End was empty of children and Dwarves, and Bilbo hesitated for a moment in the foyer, turning a slow circle as he took in everything.<p>

His father had commissioned Bag End for his mother, as a gift of love, practical though that gift was. A place for Belladonna to settle her Tookish heart and wandering feet, with no easterly facing windows in the bedrooms to draw a drowsy Hobbit too early from his bed. Bungo Baggins had been a terribly practical Hobbit, in both his ways and his thoughts. The only impractical thing he'd ever done was fall in love with a Took.

Traces of them lingered everywhere. His mother's dishes were set neatly in the sideboard, and their pictures hung over the mantel, facing each other for all time. On one corner wall there was a mark that Bilbo had left as a child; dashing through the house, he'd run smack into it, hard enough to ding the plaster and his mother had scolded him as much as she had laughed at his silliness.

He'd plotted his own imaginary adventures in that sitting room, pouring over maps and going ever on about the things he imagined he'd do, with his mother watching indulgently, hushing his father's frowning dismay. Never venture east, his father had cautioned him. His mother had had no such concerns.

Bag End held the bulk of his life memories within these walls, excepting one single year, the year he'd hared off after a group of Dwarves, his heart longing for mountains he'd never seen. And here he was, planning to leave it all behind to follow that same-said Dwarf once again and leave the home of his family behind. It was a terrifying thought, an exhilarating one. Thorin had not offered him a hobbit hole, no, but an entire mountain instead.

Well. Bilbo thought his mother might very well approve. First, though, he'd best make sure his Dwarf was certain of it.

The stables weren't far, only down the hill and Bilbo made quick work of the walk, nodding absently to his warily greeting neighbors. Between Dwalin glaring at them for their manners and Bilbo shouting at them for standing on his herb garden, it was a wonder they didn't flee into their houses when any of them approached.

The stable door was open and Rufus, who ran the stables for his father, was nowhere in sight. Mostly it housed ponies and mules for those Hobbits who had not a place for them on their own property, for a modest little fee, and for those Hobbits who were visiting friends and family. Outsiders were a rare sight and Bilbo could only wonder at what Rufus had charged the Dwarves as a fair price.

It must have been decent enough that Thorin was willing to pay it again for he stood at the end of the stalls, running a currycomb over his own pony with determination. As though it had not been in this very stable just that morning and Bilbo lifted his chin in determination; this time Thorin would not be escaping so easily.

He did not look up as Bilbo walked to him, his hair close to shielding his eyes and one of his braids was tangled, caught up against the brocade at Thorin's collar. Without thinking, Bilbo reached up and untangled it, holding that slim rope of hair lightly. Soft, other tendrils brushing Bilbo's knuckles lightly and there was a temptation to bury his hands again in that silver-gilded darkness and simply feel the heavy weight of Thorin's hair. To know he could, that he would be allowed, was a giddy knowledge.

Bilbo resisted the urge, first things first. "Are you planning on staying in the stables all day?" Bilbo asked politely, giving the braid in his hand a gentle tug. "Because I'd like a hand at packing."

His currycomb stilled, Thorin's hands resting on his pony's side. "You are still upset with me," Thorin said quietly.

"Perhaps a bit," Bilbo smiled, adding lightly, "Although I suppose I do understand how your pride wouldn't allow you to offer me goodbyes."

"That was not entirely true," Thorin sighed and his comb stirred to life again, brushing with a muted fury that the pony luckily seemed to enjoy. It lifted its head towards Bilbo, nibbling softly as his sleeve in search of a lucky apple or a sugar cube. He gave it an absent pat on the nose, waiting until Thorin sorted through his words and thoughts to say, "I did not expect you to say yes."

"What did you expect?" Bilbo asked, softly. "Tell me what it is that's troubling you." Thorin laid the comb aside, his hand coming up to tangle with Bilbo's around the length of his braid.

"I spent years thinking of you, imagining something very like this," Thorin told him, the deep blue of his eyes solemn. "And never in that time did I allow my imaginings to consider what you might have done in the meantime. Wed, perhaps, with children of your own, I did not allow myself to even think it. And then after all Balin's careful planning, I arrived to find you had a child."

Thorin took a long breath, let it out slowly. "Dwalin was not wrong, I was playing the coward. I did not wish to ask because I already knew the answer."

"But you were wrong," Bilbo gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I've said it, I'll say it again. I'm coming with you, we are."

"I know and I do not doubt you. And yet," Thorin fell silent and his gaze fell away, darting from ground to pony. Bilbo lifted a hand to cup his cheek, sifting through the coarse softness of his beard in wordless encouragement. Finally, Thorin ground out, achingly low, "I do not get to keep the things that I love."

"And do you love me?" Bilbo asked hoarsely, for somewhere in this mixture of confused courtship and running away, those very words had been misplaced.

"I do," Thorin said, soft as a confession and Bilbo closed his eyes, biting his lip as he listened to those quiet words spoken to him amongst the shifting of pony hoofs and the gentle whickers. "Aye, I do. I believe I knew it first in Mirkwood." His mouth curled into a gentle smile beneath Bilbo's light touch. "I was imprisoned and you…you were more than capable. Invisible to all and yet, I could see you as you truly were."

"But that was ages ago!" Bilbo sputtered, outraged. "Why did you never say anything!"

"I was leading us all very probably to our deaths at the claws and teeth of a dragon," Thorin reminded him, catching up Bilbo's wandering hand and pressing a kiss into its palm. "Why add to that?"

"And after?"

"After I...I was not myself," Thorin said, slowly, "And when I was, you left."

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said, thickly. Here he was having tantrums over goodbyes when he'd done very much the same things only a few short years ago, taking with him only a little gold and a stolen map hidden in his pocket. "I didn't mean to run away."

"I did," Thorin told him, softly, "And I am sorry for it." His mouth was soft against Bilbo's fingers, his beard a delicious abrasion and the urge to kiss him was overwhelming, his taste grown addictive in a single morning. That mouth had been drawing Bilbo in for some time, a sly seduction all its own.

"I almost. Kissed you," Bilbo blurted out, "That night in the rain." It was better that he hadn't, Bilbo knew, ever so much better, but that foggy memory lingered, of Thorin so close to him, all damp lips and hair and wide blue eyes. Dwarven loveliness, there for the taking, and Bilbo hadn't even realized then it was his to take.

"I almost let you," Thorin murmured and Bilbo bit the tip of his tongue, oh, if he had… "Then I remembered Dwalin's words, reminding me that you were not yourself. It would have been unworthy to do such a thing, and unforgivable, but you were difficult to resist."

Bilbo scoffed, "Flattery is unbecoming."

"Flattery?" Thorin said, disbelieving. "Do you not know how irresistible you are to me? There you were, in your gold trimmed waistcoat and that scarf on your neck, mocking me with glimpses of your throat. I was sure you wore it to tease me."

"I…didn't…" Bilbo swallowed, heard the dry click of his throat.

"Your hair was wet, little curls clinging to your forehead," Thorin went on, his voice lowering to a rasp. "And your eyes, your mouth, were begging me to—"

His mouth was no less a temptation for all that Bilbo had had it twice now, those soft lips parted, already lowering to catch Bilbo's up again, to offer him yet another sweet taste to feed his growing addiction. Bilbo let his eyes fall closed, his mouth already seeking that eager touch and-

The sound of a throat awkwardly being cleared was enough to freeze them both and Bilbo let his breath hiss out between his teeth in frustration as Rufus said, meekly, "Um, sir? Mister Bilbo…I mean! Hello, Mister Bilbo, I weren't. That is—Mister Dwarf, sir, I was only—"

Of course, now the stable boy would find them. Bilbo was starting to wonder if perhaps the universe itself was against him having kisses.

"Yes?" Thorin snapped and to a weaker soul, Bilbo thought the fury in his eyes might very well be like peering into a fiery chasm of doom. Surely Rufus seemed to think so, high color in his cheeks as he shuffled his feet uncertainly and his eyes were wide as tea saucers. Bilbo supposed once he got past the urge to piss his own trousers, he would be off in a trice to offer this delicious bit of gossip around.

The idea didn't pinch as much as it once had. In truth, Bilbo was only sorry he hadn't managed to steal his kiss first.

Luckily, Rufus did seem to have some the tiny reserve of courage that Hobbits occasionally possessed, and he squared his shoulders, bravely meeting the furious gaze of a kiss-deprived Dwarf, "I have the wagon for you, sir," Rufus announced, proudly. "Hitched out here with the other pony and I can make you up a receipt if you'd like."

"That will not be necessary," Thorin told him curtly and he fished a coin out of his pocket, tossing it in Rufus's direction. The lad snapped it out of the air with alacrity, beaming a smile at them both before he darted off, either to spread his delicious gossip of Mad Baggins groping a Dwarf in the stables, like a tween hiding from his da in the hayloft, or perhaps the coin would allow him to resist the urge for a day or so.

No, that was wistful thinking. An hour, no more, and by then his coin would be spent and his restraint lost. Worse, Thorin didn't seem as though his mind was on kisses any longer, giving his pony a pat as he cleared away his combs.

Truly, the unfairness of the universe was staggering. Bilbo followed Thorin out with a barely restrained sigh and true to Rufus's word, there was a wagon there, a decent enough one with stout wheels and plenty of space at the back.

"A wagon?" Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

"You can hardly hope to carry all that you want on pony back," Thorin shrugged. "And Dwalin will be all the better for a place to set Frodo, I assure you. He'll be happier to drive alongside us."

"I'm sure. I do believe Dwalin rides as well as he cooks," Bilbo snorted. The pony hitched to the wagon was one he recognized as Dwalin's, piebald, and chewing lazily into her feedbag. She seemed oddly flatulent, even for such a beast as it was, and Bilbo wrinkled his nose, stepping back from the whole arrangement. "Dwalin's pony is an interesting sort."

"Aye," Thorin's grin was entirely childish for one named King. "He chose her himself."

"I certainly believe that," Bilbo said dryly, "What's her name then?"

That Thorin did not answer was curious enough and when Bilbo glanced at him, he noted Thorin was looking over the wagon with what was surely unnecessary concentration. "Oh, dear. You must tell me, the curiosity will eat me alive."

"He calls her any number of things," Thorin said lightly. "I think the most common is-" To Bilbo's ears, it sounded more like the groaning death moan of some great hideous beast and Khuzdûl was not as musical as Elvish, true, but it was not normally so...guttural.

"And that means?" Bilbo prompted, ignoring the patter of his heart when Thorin smiled widely enough to show the even line of his teeth, his eyes sparkling bright with humor. Gracious, he really was in a terrible amount of trouble, Bilbo thought wryly, if only a smile was enough to warm his blood.

Thorin gave the pony a firm scratch behind the ears. The sound it made was an odd groaning whicker and Bilbo kept his own hands to himself on this beast. He offered Bilbo another quick smile before telling him, "Loosely translated, it means, 'You buggery cunt.'"

Bilbo pursed his lips, considering. "I see. May I suggest we tell Frodo her name is, oh, I don't know, Basil, perhaps? It's hardly as colorful but I think I'd rather not introduce him to Erebor riding atop his noble steed, Buggery Cunt."

"Language," Thorin chided with a wink, "And I believe the argument can be made that Basil is not the noblest of names and neither is the pony."

"He's not riding the raggedy nag Buggery Cunt into Erebor, either, thank you very much."

"Basil it is then," Thorin agreed, and he climbed into the driver's seat, holding out a hand to Bilbo. Who took it with only a bit of trepidation, supposing that if he insisted he could walk up the hill to Bag End, he'd likely only delay the inevitable.

He did not expect to be hauled in close, a strong arm drawing him up, nor did he expect the mouth that closed over his own, a hard, smacking kiss that left little to the imaginations of anyone who might be passing by that yes, that Dwarf had just kissed Bilbo Baggins right here out in the bright sunshine.

Bilbo blinked, dazed, as he was plopped down on the bench seat, Thorin giving him a challenging glance as he gathered up the reins, as though expecting a shout or at least a sputtering protest.

Instead, Bilbo scrambled up on his knees, catching up Thorin's face in both his small hands and laying quick kiss of his own upon that mouth, only just flicking his tongue between Thorin's startled lips to catch his taste.

Then he sat back down, hands folded neatly in his lap as he waited. "Shall we then?" Bilbo asked primly.

On anyone else, Bilbo supposed that gape might be unattractive. On Thorin, it only made Bilbo wish for a bit less sunshine and perhaps another darkened corner where he could catch hold of the little braid in his beard, surely the best way to keep hold of him, and steal a dozen more kisses.

Lacking that, Bilbo nudged him in the ankle with his own bare toes, "Off to pack, yes?" Bilbo prompted and Thorin visibly startled.

"I…yes, we are," Thorin said, determinedly, clucking to the pony as he flicked the reins and they were off, their adventure beginning, it seemed, at the behest of Basil, the newly named pony, and a wagon that only needed packed.

* * *

><p>They were very nearly to the top of the hill when Bilbo heard it, the first wailing cries and he silently gestured for Thorin to stop the wagon, climbing down to follow the heartbreaking sound of children weeping.<p>

There, beneath the tree, was Dwalin and he was currently sporting an unusual coat of small, crying children, all tangled together in a knot of limbs and sobs. Through the jumble, Bilbo was quite certain he saw Frodo alongside Samwise's bright curls. Certainly that was Merry's foot currently digging with what was surely no small discomfort into Dwalin's throat as the little hobbit clung to his shoulders, his small fingers leaving dirty fingerprints on a bald head. Pippin was just barely visible at Dwalin's knee, wiping his nose vigorously on the leg of the Dwarf's trousers.

From this angle, Bilbo could just see Frodo sniveling wetly into Dwalin's beard and his heart lurched, already starting forward to offer what soothing it could. Only to be caught by a hand at his shoulder, Thorin silently shaking his head.

"Let him," Thorin whispered, low, and Bilbo hesitated, his wounded heart begging for a little one to comfort. Still, he trusted Thorin's judgment in this and Dwalin had proved to be a capable babysitter. Certainly he was doing his best just now, patting little backs and ruffling mussed hair soothingly.

It seemed he was doing well enough…until Bilbo could only watch in horror as Dwalin gave them all a light shove, tumbling them into the dirt as he climbed to his feet with a roar, "Enough of that, now! Are you warriors or not?"

Four pairs of swimming eyes rose up to where Dwalin glared down at the lot of them, his shirt and trousers both dampened with the various wet things that came with weeping. "Yes," they chorused, forlornly.

"Yes, what?" Dwalin demanded, hands propped on his hips.

"Yes, Mister Dwalin," Came the miserable little whisper.

"Be-kar," Pippin hiccoughed, eyes and nose streaming.

"Aye, that's right. _Du Bekâr_. We are strong!" Dwalin knelt down to them, swiping a wet streak from Samwise's plump cheek with a broad thumb even as he caught up little Pippin, hoisting him into an elbow despite his damp nappy. "And you've naught to weep about, did I not say we will return?"

"It will be some time, you said," Samwise said, his voice small and miserable, his brown eyes awash with tears.

"It may," Dwalin agreed, gravely, "Aye, it may. I've left many a place behind, I have, and it can take a good time to get back. But we will return, the both of us. Do you trust me on that, lads?"

"Yes, Mister Dwalin," came in a chorus, wet eyes and noses wiped on shirtsleeves, and Bilbo could only cringe and finger his own handkerchief regretfully.

"And we aren't leaving just yet," Dwalin told them. "So spare your tears for true partings. Now," Dwalin said, and the gleam in his eye could only be called sly, "I do believe I heard that Missus Gamgee does her baking today. Was she making cookies, do you know, Samwise, m'boy? Those ones with the raisins and bits?"

"Yes, she did, Mister Dwalin," Samwise said tremulously, to Bilbo's silent outrage. The little turncoat.

"Then we have a raid to plan, do we not?" Dwalin grinned at them, eyes gleaming lustily at the thought of their spoils of war. "Come along, lads, time is wasting and we need to be moving on. Du Bekâr!"

To Bilbo's pride, Frodo frowned, his eyes wide, "But Uncle Thorin said-" he fell silent under four pairs of eyes, three pleading and one with bushy brows raised, Dwalin's face drawn heavy with challenge. Pride sputtered into amused resignation as Frodo faltered, cringing beneath the collective weight of their peer pressure.

His little chin raised and Frodo offered a slightly meek, "_Du Bekâr_?" To be met with cheers and the five of them were off, Dwalin leading his band of youthful miscreants off to terrorize Hobbiton once again.

Bilbo watched them go with a sigh, "Should we warn Bell and Hamfast that they are about to be raided?"

Thorin only chuckled and shook his head. "From what I hear, we can trust Missus Gamgee to guard her own kitchen."

That was surely true. Few Hobbits were more capable than Hamfast and Bell Gamgee, and though their brood of children were rowdy, they were also mannerly and sweet, Samwise only the youngest of their fine young ones. He should ask Hamfast to be his caretaker, Bilbo realized, indeed, he and his family should just move in, the better to keep an eye on things.

Hamfast had always been a good gardener, a good neighbor, and more than that, a good friend. Bilbo could not think of anyone he would trust more and Bag End sounded a great deal better when children were laughing inside it.

Standing here, so close to his own front door, Bilbo thought there was very little he actually needed to take with him. His mother's dishes and doilies had never meant less to him and he was already taking the most important thing in his life along.

He needed his clothes, of course, a few keepsakes, his books and papers, those he certainly wanted. A few things to pack, a few plans to make and they could be off. Bilbo was slowly coming to realize that he couldn't wait. A craving for mountains was once again singing in his blood, calling softly for him to return and while he packed that day, he found himself humming beneath his breath, matched by Thorin's own voice as he took up the tune, the low rumble of his voice doubled alongside a memory.

The interruption of a pair of shrieking, laughing brigands tumbling through his door hardly mattered and Bilbo only took in Dwalin and Frodo with silent bemusement, the both of them coated with enough flour that they could be tossed into a pan for frying and was that jam spattering the front of Dwalin's shirt, great globs of it dripping from his beard? Strawberry, if Bilbo was not mistaken.

"I see that Missus Gamgee puts up quite a defense," Thorin said dryly, eyeing the both of them.

"Aye, she does!" Dwalin agreed, though he held up a nearly empty jar with a crow of triumph, "But we would not be foiled, isn't that right, lad!"

"Yes, Mister Dwalin!" Frodo piped up, his eyes large in his ghostly-floured face. "Would you like a cookie, Uncle Thorin?"

"A stolen cookie?" Thorin asked him sternly and Frodo's lower lip trembled, though he stood his ground. "Aye, I would, _akhûnith_. I expect they only taste better for the thievery."

"Always have," Dwalin told him around a mouthful of his own, shaking the jar and its last lonely occupants teasingly at Bilbo, who sighed and took one of his own.

"Do see that you return the jar, at least?" Bilbo scolded. Whether thievery-flavored baked goods tasted better or not, he did have to admit it was a very good cookie.

"Mister Dwalin said you always return the jar," Frodo told him solemnly, scratching at a floury cheek. It only left him looking partially baked. "If you give them back the jar, it will get filled again!"

"Ah, wisdom for the ages," Thorin chuckled, ruffling Frodo's white-dusted hair. "A bath for both of you, if you please, then perhaps you can help us with packing?"

"Yes, sir," Frodo agreed happily, scampering off to the bathroom. Dwalin only gave the two of them a look from beneath flour-crusted eyebrows.

"Everything all right, then?" he asked, with unusual hesitancy. Perhaps Dwalin was considering locked doors, with Thorin and Bilbo on the other side.

"Everything is fine," Bilbo told him firmly. "And if you would put aside your evil ways for a time and help us along, three days should be plenty of time."

"Aye, I'll see to the lad and his things," Dwalin agreed, smirking a bit. Bilbo let that go without a comment, for Dwalin surely deserved a little of his smugness.

"By the by, your pony's name is Basil," Bilbo said, carefully laying his writing in a neatly labeled crate. If there was one thing that could not be replaced, Frodo aside, it was this.

Dwalin frowned at him, brows drawing together, "But—"

"Basil," Bilbo insisted and Dwalin only shrugged.

"Aye, have it your way," Dwalin said, bewildered, "Though I don't see why Daisy was such a terrible name."

"Daisy," Bilbo repeated with a frown of his own and when he turned that frown to Thorin, he found the Dwarf busily packing another crate of books, lips pressed together tightly as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. "I am surrounded by evil," Bilbo said, wonderingly.

A clap on his shoulder nearly sent him sprawling and Bilbo scowled at the new addition of a hand-shaped imprint in flour on his shirt. "Best get used to it," Dwalin chuckled, his boots leaving floury prints of their own on the floor as he went after Frodo.

At Bilbo's feet were books, papers, his lifetime slowly being spread out and packed away, and Thorin began on a second crate, neatly stacking the books Bilbo had chosen to take. As Bilbo watched, he tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear, lips moving silently as he read the titles curiously before adding more. A King kneeling on his floor, but no, Thorin could be King to everyone else. All Bilbo wanted was for Thorin to be his.

Get used to it, Dwalin had said, when the truth was, Bilbo was having a difficult time remembering how he'd lived without it.

With a quiet sigh, Bilbo went back to his books and chose through them, some set aside to be sent along later and others to be packed now. They worked together in half-silence, snatches of song hummed aloud and pages shuffling, and that was how they worked through that day.

* * *

><p>It was after dinner that Bilbo faced another conundrum, one that he hadn't quite considered. The plates were washed and put away, despite the mess that still lingered in Bilbo's study of mostly packed crates and books littered about. Frodo's room was much the same, for he and Dwalin had been sorting through toys and clothes, setting aside those that would soon be too small and choosing through his small army of stuffed toys and puzzles for those that simply could not be left behind.<p>

Frodo was tucked into his own bed amidst the mess, asleep in moments, and it was only after they left him, Bilbo stifling a yawn of his own, that he realized they had not spoken about sleeping arrangements. Certainty Thorin could stay in the room he'd had and it was entirely possible Bilbo would get more sleep that way.

Whether he _wanted_ more sleep was entirely the point. He caught Thorin's arm as he turned back to the sitting room, and yes, it was early, but Bilbo found he was rather exhausted. It had been quite a day.

"If you'd like, you can stay here. In my room, here. Tonight." Bilbo managed, low, and the heat of his own cheeks burned hot as a fire. Thorin said nothing, his brow creasing as he considered and Bilbo thought of how…how impertinent that sounded and hastily added, "To sleep! I mean, after all," Bilbo laughed weakly, "You did stay here the night before last."

"To watch over you in case you were ill again," Thorin agreed, slowly, "I would prefer staying in here. To sleep, as you say. Bilbo," And here Thorin reached up, stroking a broad thumb over the smoothness of Bilbo's cheek, "You needn't feel compelled to offer anything to me that you do not wish."

Bilbo frowned, "I'm not... I'll have you know. I...I do want this. You. I want everything in this. I'm hardly a shrinking virgin."

Thorin only raised an eyebrow, "You're assuming I'm not?"

If Bilbo's mouth had dropped open any harder, he might have bumped his chin on the carpet. He recovered quickly at Thorin's smirk, "You aren't at all funny."

"I am very funny," Thorin corrected, "But not now. I am not a virgin, there's no need for either of us to play the innocent. But neither will I be greedy and take what I have yet to earn." He rested one broad thumb on Bilbo's mouth, "I've felt greed, its teeth and burn. I don't need to feel such things for you."

Oh, honestly. Bilbo blew out a disgruntled breath, trapped by the honor of Dwarves. On one hand it was terribly touching, but on the other, well, uncouth as it might be, his greed for this was quickly outstripping Thorin's. Patience, he reminded himself, it might not only be honor that was holding Thorin back. Only this morning they'd both been expecting to never see each other again, there was no reason to rush.

Still, he was of a mind to have _something_ and what he wanted had been denied to him quite enough.

Bilbo looked up at him with plaintive eyes, "I wouldn't terribly mind a kiss."

Thorin smiled warmly, leaning down to press their foreheads together in a gentle tap, "Well, so long as you wouldn't terribly mind."

His mouth was soft, hardly more than a languid press of lips moving coaxingly over Bilbo's and Bilbo let out a soft sigh, tipping his head up in a silent plea for more. A wish that was tenderly granted, sweet kisses matched with the lightest flutter of tongue over his mouth, tracing his lower lip.

Oh, Thorin had a lovely mouth, Bilbo thought hazily. Offering achingly soft kisses when he wished to, large hands cupping Bilbo's face, his palms rough and cool against Bilbo's too-warm cheeks even as he stole another kiss, catching Bilbo's lower lip between his own and sucking it to plump tenderness.

It was all terribly distracting; so much so that Bilbo hardly noticed they were moving until he nearly stumbled, sitting down hard on the edge of a bed that he did not recall walking towards. Thorin followed him down, their mouths hardly jarring apart and Bilbo sighed into another gentle press of lips, curling his tongue teasingly against Thorin's.

Bilbo's breath caught on a soft whimper as Thorin drew away, only to stutter up in a sigh as instead he mouthed softly at the line of Bilbo's jaw, leaving a trail of dampness to cool as he kissed his way to Bilbo's ear, setting his teeth lightly into the soft lobe.

"Kisses," Thorin reminded him, though his voice was a low growl. "Only kisses."

"And if I want more than kisses?" Bilbo whispered back, clutching at Thorin's broad shoulders with a low gasp as he traced the shell of Bilbo's ear with the tip of his tongue, teasing lightly at the point.

"Then I would say that you are close to falling asleep in my arms," Thorin said, lips brushing Bilbo's ear with velvet gentleness. "And that when I do make love to you, I'd prefer you were awake for it."

It was on the tip of Bilbo's tongue to protest that was hardly the case, but he would have had to work his words around the yawn that threatened to escape. His jaunt this morning coupled with a day of packing had left him rather exhausted and without kisses to distract him, the softness of his bed was rather enticing.

"Not fair," Bilbo mumbled sulkily, burying his face into the warmth of Thorin's chest. He felt as much as heard his low chuckle, long strands of hair tickling lightly at his cheeks as Thorin pressed a last kiss against the top of his head.

"Go to sleep," Thorin murmured, "And I will stay. You won't have to chase after me in the morning."

"Promise?" Bilbo sighed out, sleepily, and another kiss followed the last.

"I swear it." And perhaps he was simply offering a bland promise meant to help Bilbo sleep, yet it was precisely what his heart needed to hear. Bilbo squirmed in close, pressing his ear to Thorin's chest to listen to the low throb of his heartbeat. It felt halfway like he was already dreaming, wandering through the rough tangle of thoughts and hopes and kisses that he'd never expected could be his.

If it were a dream, Bilbo only wished he might stay asleep, just a little bit longer.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 19<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

If there was one thing that Bilbo had never thought to grow accustomed to at his age, it was the presence of another in his bed. Oh, there had been others from time to time; in the days of his youth he'd had his moments, the rare drunken night spent innocently in someone else's bed, alone or otherwise, snoring off his soddenness with a cousin or two in much the same way. Even rarer were a handful of more precocious times, a great deal less than innocent, but those times were long since passed and he'd aged in to bachelorhood with most of his dignity remaining.

Well, until he'd hied off after a motley group of Dwarves. That was neither here nor there and hadn't a thing to do with beds at the time.

This past year a great deal had changed and nothing quite as much as his sleeping habits. Bilbo had learned to rise early, if not happily, and he'd grown quite used to having another body close to him, a small Hobbit who seemed to be made of poking elbows and kicking feet creeping in to curl up with him in the dead of the night.

To have a significantly larger body close to him, warm as a woolen blanket and far less scratchy, holding Bilbo close with one strong arm slung around his hips, that was something he wasn't accustomed to when he woke, blinking sleepily in the gray dawn light creeping in through the windows.

Not expecting it, no, but it was hardly an unwelcome surprise. Bilbo managed to wriggle against that restraining arm at least enough to roll over, burying his face into a well-furred chest and inhaling the sleepy-warm morning smells of a Dwarf who seemed less than willing to let him go just yet.

The low vibration of a sigh rumbled beneath Bilbo's cheek and he echoed it with one of his own. Sleepily, he rubbed his nose against silky curls even as a chin snugged against the top of his head, beard catching lightly at his hair. Drowsy as he was, it was difficult to remember just how Thorin had ended up in his bed, but forefront in Bilbo's thoughts was that he was here, holding Bilbo close to press soft kisses against his head and all of this was allowed. Expected, perhaps, even encouraged. He was allowed to have this now and Bilbo was more than greedy to take it.

"Good morning," Thorin whispered, his voice was sleep-rough and his breath stirred lightly at Bilbo's hair.

"Good morning," Bilbo yawned and some little memory trickled through his morning drowsiness, of kisses in the dark and softly whispered promises. He'd spoken truly the night before, he was no innocent but it had been years since he'd indulged in any of the pleasures of the flesh with another and here was Thorin in his very own bed and rather charmingly shirtless. His silver armlet was a cool touch against Bilbo's side, body-warmed metal that he wanted a chance to explore, ever curious about the markings Dwarves added to their jewelry and beads. The skin on either side of the armlet could use exploring as well, along with any other place Bilbo was allowed to indulge, but first he thought a kiss might be in order and no amount of sour breath was going to stop him.

A name, however, his own name spoken in a curious little voice off from the edge of the bed was enough to still Bilbo before he could do more than raise his head.

"Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo asked in his sweet voice and Bilbo thought he might grind his teeth to dust from his own frustration. Was he ever going to be able to indulge himself in that mouth?

"Yes, Frodo, my lad?" Bilbo groaned out, rolling away from Thorin to greet his nephew. The boy's wide eyes were alive with interest, taking in the sight of his two uncles in bed together with great curiosity. Bilbo only tugged the coverlet up to a dignified level and met that curiosity with a smile. It wouldn't do to dive beneath the blankets with a shriek as though they were doing something wrong and Frodo would need to become accustomed to seeing the two of them in abed.

Although he was going to have to teach the lad the long overdue lesson about knocking before entering, the sooner the better.

It would seem that Frodo found the entire matter less interesting than one might expect, for instead of asking, he only met Bilbo's smile with one of his own before announcing to the room in general, "I'm hungry."

"Of course you are," Bilbo agreed, ignoring the long-suffering groan from behind him. Though he could admit to thrilling just the smallest bit to hear it, a sign that Thorin was no more eager than he to leave the coziness of their bed. Thorin rolled over and propped his chin on Bilbo's shoulder to peer down at Frodo, who only beamed up at him with all the childish delight one might offer at seeing a favored uncle.

"Frodo, can you not ask Dwalin for breakfast?" Thorin asked him coaxingly, reaching around to press a firm hand over Bilbo's mouth when he sputtered in dismay to even think of Dwalin alone in his kitchen again. "I'm sure between the two of you there is something to be found that does not require cooking."

"I did," Frodo said earnestly. "I went to see him first because…" It was there that a somewhat guilty shadow fell over Frodo's face, one that told Bilbo very clearly that Dwalin's breakfasts of either cookies or experiments had made a grand impression on at least one young Hobbit. "Only, he's not in his room." Frodo's round face clouded, his eyes turning worried, "He didn't leave, did he? Not again?"

"He did not, _akhûnith_," Thorin soothed instantly. "He would not." He reached out and cupped Frodo's chin in his hand, his fingers large against that small face. "I am sorry, little one, that we left you before and caused you such hurt. We will never do it again. You have my word."

The word of the King Under the Mountain was not lightly given, Bilbo knew, and for Thorin to offer it to Frodo touched him deeply, although he might have been happier for a promise of that sort for himself. Still, where Frodo went, he went, and an oath by proxy was better than none at all. Besides, having Thorin pressed up against his back was the loveliest sort of distraction and it was difficult to think much on it.

Frodo had no idea to the import of vows or oaths past a pinkie swear and only knew that his Uncle Thorin had made him a promise, and he beamed his delight at them both before his brow crumpled again to confusion. "There where did Mister Dwalin go?"

"Ah," Bilbo hedged, a tangle of suspicions jumbling through his thoughts at once, none of them fit for tender ears. "Well, I'm sure he'll be back soon. Shall we get a bite to eat and get back to packing?"

"Yes!" Frodo shouted, much too loudly for such a small room and he had dashed to the door before the adults had even ceased to wince, bouncing impatiently on his wispily haired toes. "Come on, come on!"

"We'll be with you directly," Bilbo hushed him, shooing him on with a flap of his hand. He waited until the door closed, the click of it sharp and obvious in the quiet room, before he turned, pushing Thorin back into the sheets and covering his surprised mouth with his own. Better to steal a kiss now before something else happened, perhaps a fire or the ceiling might well cave in. Frogs might rain down upon them. Who knew what disasters were in store to keep them from another kiss?

Despite Bilbo's dour fears, no catastrophe befell them, only a gentle kiss, another, as Thorin met Bilbo's eagerness with a tenderness of his own. Finally, he sighed and leaned back despite Bilbo's wordless protest, shifting his grip to the back of Bilbo's neck and pressing their foreheads together.

"You know he will not wait," Thorin told him. "And if we do not follow, he will be back here in moments."

True enough and much as Bilbo wanted a lazy morning of kisses and bedplay, what he was going to have was an early breakfast and a day of packing. "He will not wait," Bilbo agreed, grumpily. "But I would rather not, either."

That earned him a wry smile, "Nor I." Thorin looked up at him through dark lashes, the blue of his eyes vivid in the rising light, "But I can be patient."

Honestly, the unfairness of it was staggering. What would it say of him if a Dwarf had more patience than he? Nothing good, Bilbo was sure.

It did not stop him from twisting away from Thorin's grip, stealing a last kiss in spite of a bit of sour breath, "Very well," Bilbo sighed, rolling to sit at the edge of the bed. "Let's be off and begin the day, I—ouch!"

Thorin had never been able to manage an innocent expression and he did not now, not with Bilbo's backside twinging from the hearty pinch it had just received. No amount of wide blue eyes nor lips trembling at the verge of laughter would convince him.

Bilbo scowled at him, rubbing the spot where he would surely have a bruise soon enough, "You—"

"Come along, then," Thorin chided, rolling to his own feet on the bed's other side and he stretched luxuriously, groaning aloud at the pop of joints, scratching lightly at his chest as he scrounged for his shirt. "You'd have us lie about all day when there are things to be done."

Yes, he would, Bilbo did not say aloud, mourning the tiniest bit as Thorin slipped back into his shirt and the firm bulge of his muscled arms and chest vanished within swathes of cloth.

Aloud, Bilbo sighed out, "Of course not," and followed him to the door. And if he stole a quick pinch of his own to the backside in front of him, drawing a startled grunt from Thorin, then Bilbo blithely ignored the narrow glare that fell upon him.

After all, fair was fair.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was a hasty affair, the dishes quickly washed and put away, though Bilbo felt a different sort of twinge than he normally might at sight of them stacked neatly in the cupboards. It was silly to pack dishes that would only take up room that would do for more useful things and might very well be broken along the way.<p>

Still, they had been his mother's and they were over a hundred years old. Bilbo ran a thumb over the pattern etched along the edge, the blue glaze in the center. Dishes that he had used since childhood.

He held the plate a moment, remembering eating a hundred meals on them and then one particular meal with a group of Dwarves singing and tossing his dishes about, Kíli and Fíli in particular; oh, the brats they had been, relishing his near-panic as they'd bounced bowls from their elbows and hurled plates at one another.

Next to him, Thorin was drying dishes with Frodo, sitting on a low stool so they were of a height. Sleeves rolled up, his shirtfront speckled with dishwater and whatever he murmured low to Frodo drew a giggle from the lad, his own small towel drying diligently.

Somewhere in Bilbo's chest, just above his belly and beneath his heart, was a knot, a tangled Gordian lump, looped and bound with every buried fear he had about this. The choice was made and promises given, Bilbo and Frodo would be off to Erebor in short order, that he knew, but it didn't stop those knots from tightening, each worry tangled in deep and all the careless courage in all of Middle-earth could not prevent it.

Seeing Thorin and Frodo whispering, one large, dark head bowing down to bright curls as they laughed softly together, loosened at least one of those threads and cast it aside.

Bilbo set the plate down and another joined it, stacking each dish in his cupboard and closing it firmly. Dishes and doilies, wasn't that what Gandalf had said? In the end, they were unimportant, merely _things_ and Bilbo thought perhaps he might have readily followed Thorin with only the shirt on his back and Frodo at his side, if that had been his only choice.

Just as well that it had not been, Bilbo thought wryly. He'd rather not travel all the way to Erebor in his nightshirt.

* * *

><p>Bilbo might have been willing to run off into the Blue with Thorin and his latest Company with little more than an eager nephew and his nightshirt flapping behind him, but since that was not his only option, it left him trying to decide what to bring and what to leave, the entirety of his life sorted into crates.<p>

And not just his own life, but Frodo's as well. The lad was young, true, and he'd been shuffled about a few times in his short life, tumbled like a coin in a pocket until he'd finally settled with Bilbo. He'd arrived at Bag End with nothing more than a rucksack and a small crate of toys and Bilbo found himself bemused at how much the lad had managed to accumulate in the past year. He was willing to concede that it was entirely possible he'd spoiled the boy a bit. Books, toys, clothes; it hadn't seemed so terribly much before they'd had to pack it all up and of Bilbo's many talents, packing did not seem to be amongst them.

Thorin, on the other hand, seemed to excel at it. As quick and neat as a flash, he'd had Frodo's room crated up, his precious wooden soldiers wrapped reverently in clean rags, including the latest addition of a Dwarf warrior. Everything was efficiently crammed in with nary a favorite left behind and all Bilbo could do was watch with mute astonishment at the growing stack of boxes.

The reasons that Thorin would be excellent at a quick and capable gathering of possessions only renewed the ache in Bilbo's throat and he set those thoughts aside as past and done. Better, he thought, to simple watch, following any brusque direction Thorin offered unquestioningly and…well. Watching, yes, his eyes straying to Thorin absently tucking a long strand of troublesome hair behind his ear, taking in the taut bulge of muscles in his thighs whenever he crouched to lift another crate.

Honestly, he was supposed to be helping, not gaping like a love-struck tween and Bilbo might have even bothered to feel guilty about it, if he hadn't caught the glances cast his way. The way blue eyes lingered over him, large hands straying to his shoulders, his back; whenever Thorin passed by him broad fingers would tangle briefly in his hair, settle at the nape of his neck. Permission had been granted for touch and with it came a compulsion neither of them seemed able to resist.

How dreadfully frustrating it was to be caught up in the honeyed glow of kindling desire and not be able to indulge it in! Bilbo marveled that any Hobbits managed to have more than one child even when they weren't trying to pack an entire Hobbit hole to fit into a small wagon.

Frodo was darting around them eagerly, their unintentional chaperone, frowning and considering each item before adding it to the pile of things that must be packed or could be left behind. His room was finished in short order, leaving only a small stack of crates to be loaded into the waiting wagon and Bilbo did not have to be wheedled much by his nephew to make tea.

They took it in the hallway, pot and all, and scones on a plate as they considered what to do next.

"Aside from your fondness for books, you'll need a weapon while we are travelling," The Hobbit-sized cup was tiny in Thorin's large hand, and he blew softly on his tea before taking a sip, offering a wry smile as he added, "I do know your weapon of choice this time."

"Yes," Bilbo said dryly, "Letter opener. Fortunately, I still have mine, and armor besides. Mithril does wear well, I've noticed."

"Mithril? You kept it," Thorin said with no small surprise and Bilbo frowned at him.

"Of course I did, did you expect me to give it away? Sell it?" He set his teacup aside with a clatter and padded down to the end of the hall. His mother's glory box still sat there, though the contents were somewhat different than they had been not so many years ago.

Secreted within were memories of a different sort, ones that he'd not seen to packing into crates just yet; A large, battered helmet, one that Thorin had placed on Bilbo's head himself and Bilbo remembered the weight of it, far too large for him, nearly covering his eyes. His sword, Sting, was within as well and Bilbo took it out and set it gently aside. The scabbard was no worse for being tucked into a chest for a few years and Bilbo didn't imagine the sword had suffered either, certainly not more than they would have moldering away in a Troll cave for however long they'd been there.

Beneath it all there was a bundle of velvety cloth and Bilbo lifted it out with a touch of reverence, laying it open to show the gleam of mithril within. Next to him, Frodo sucked in a sharp breath, reaching out thoughtlessly with a wondering hand, only to pull it back, his fingers curling into a small fist.

"You couldn't possibly hurt it, Frodo," Bilbo assured him, running a thumb of his own down the fine metal mesh of it, Frodo's joining him as he touched it with a reverence of his own.

"I've never seen this, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo asked curiously and Bilbo nodded slowly.

"I know you haven't, my lad," Bilbo said, softly, and wondered if he could even explain why he hadn't shown him. So little had made its way from the Lonely Mountain with him and when he had returned home, most of it had been quickly packed away. The memories had been so fresh then, like a wound, and as with all wounds Bilbo had found that a bandage helped. He'd boxed up his memories and laid them aside, all but the stolen map. Thorin's map. That he'd kept out, the one scab he'd allowed himself to pick at, one wound that did not quite heal.

Thorin did not touch the shirt and his face was faintly pale, lips pinched as he looked down on it.

"Did you forget that you gave it to me?" Bilbo asked softly, brow wrinkled in concern, and Thorin shook his head.

"I did not," Thorin said tightly. "In fact, I gave it to you twice."

"Twice—" Bilbo began, bewildered, and then a memory clicked into place of Thorin sending him off to join the Men and Elves. He'd allowed Bilbo to leave with the armor on his back even as he'd shouted to him, _screamed_ at him in blinding fury driven by Dragon-sickness of his unworthiness to wear it. It had been his memory of the war that had led him to bundling this pretty thing away half-forgotten into a chest. That Thorin would look upon it with such dismay, his eyes clouded and lost, drew Bilbo to his feet.

Their little chaperone was forgotten as he took Thorin's face in both hands, rising up on his toes to offer a soft kiss, another, until Thorin's stillness eased, his mouth softening even as one of his hands clasped the back of Bilbo's neck and drew him further in, flavoring the kiss with a hint of desperation.

Bilbo drew his thumbs tenderly down Thorin's bearded cheeks, trying to tell him with fingers and lips alike, wordlessly, that all was forgiven, had _been_ forgiven, and it was well. It was only when Thorin's mouth parted beneath his own, the lightest caress of a tongue rubbing over his lips that Bilbo remembered that they were not alone and he drew back with a gasp, hardly able to pull back at all with Thorin holding him closely.

True to his nature, Frodo was still sitting there, staring up at them with great interest for surely it had not even occurred to the lad to abandon such a show and offer a moment of privacy.

Instead, he waited until both Bilbo and Thorin were looking at him before asking, brightly, "Are you going to be married?"

"Frodo-" Bilbo began, sorting frantically through answers that neither presumed nor dismissed the idea of it.

"Cause I want another cousin," Frodo went on happily. "I like cousins, can I have a boy cousin?" He wrinkled his little nose then, considering. "A girl would be all right."

"I believe that's a discussion for another time," Thorin said, firmly, and Bilbo might have sagged with relief at not having to answer those particular questions, not just yet. "We still need to finish packing your Uncle's things, do we not?"

"Yes, Uncle Thorin," Frodo said, with such world-weary resignation that Bilbo had to stifle a laugh. Oh, a little imp wished for more cousins, did he? Bilbo was rather afraid that was one wish that would have to go unanswered, though he had a wish of his own to be spared explaining the whyfores and whithertos of it at a later date.

Thorin caught up Frodo, tickling the lad as they made for the study and Bilbo took a moment to gather up his mithril shirt from the floor. He laid it atop the chest, gleaming softly in the light and if Thorin's memory of it was not fond, at least Bilbo could recall the first moment Thorin had drawn it over his head, a moment untainted yet by Dragon-sickness or war, only a gift given in the first moments of his return to Erebor.

Then he went quickly after them before they could destroy the order of his remaining papers and books, wondering briefly as he went just where Dwalin had gone off to. Not that he worried for the Dwarf, not at all; rather, he was a bit concerned for Hobbiton. Just because he was off on another adventure did not mean they should leave the place in a shambles, which was certainly all that would remain if Dwalin was left to it.

Whatever he was about, Bilbo supposed he'd find out one way or another soon enough, and he joined Thorin and Frodo in the study to pack the rest of it up, adding a few more boxes of his life to the growing collection.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, it was well past noon when Dwalin finally returned, as though summoned by the smell of soup and toasted sandwiches. He flung the door open and strode in without a by your leave, nearly walking into a stack of crates waiting to be carried out. Warily, he peered around them into the kitchen where the three of them were eating.<p>

"And how goes the packing?" Dwalin said gruffly.

"Better perhaps now that you are here!" Bilbo said tartly. "You might have taken Frodo along with you—" Behind him, Thorin made a queer noise and Bilbo flushed, realizing what he'd said. Oh, dear, no, he didn't want to consider what Dwalin had been doing and he certainly hadn't wanted Frodo present. "I mean…I thought that…drat!" Bilbo muttered.

"We're sorry to keep him so long," Came a softer voice from behind him, "But we needed an extra set of hands and Mister Dwalin has proved himself more than capable in my eyes!" From around Dwalin's broad form came one much shorter, though almost as wide, smiling at them all with a laden basket in hand.

Bell Gamgee was a hearty woman, broad in hips and bosom with a smiling face that showed a friendly gap between her front teeth, her cheeks rosy-apples and her red hair coiled in braids that would make any Dwarf envious. Only the few wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes and her smiling mouth betrayed her age, alongside a few silver strands in her hair. She beamed up at Dwalin, dimples winking as she reached up to pat his cheek, the basket on her arm swaying as he snuck a hand within and stole out a cookie before she could offer it around the table.

Frodo took his cookie eagerly, although Bell paused at Thorin's chair to offer a neat curtsy alongside a, "Your Highness," before offering the basket to him.

"Thorin, just Thorin is perfectly fine, Missus Gamgee," Thorin sighed, stealing out two cookies. "No matter what _Mister_ Dwalin tells you."

"Bell, then," she corrected with a broad smile. "And Mister Dwalin has been terribly helpful, he has."

"Aye, he made himself useful enough," Hamfast huffed out from behind her, stepping up and heaving a dusty wooden box atop the table despite his wife's clucking dismay. He drew out a rumpled handkerchief to wipe his sweating face. "A'course, we could have managed on our own, but we had a mind to hurry."

"Hurry for what?" Bilbo asked, bewildered, and while once he might have been dismayed at a filthy box set upon his kitchen table, now he was only curious as to its contents. It was covered with a thin burlap sack and when Bilbo drew it back he found dozens of neat packets, each with a label written in a trio of scripts. Cucumber, tomato, turnips, he read, squinting through what he recognized as Hamfast's scrawl and Bell's neater penmanship.

Seeds, he realized, each type carefully packaged.

"We did think of sending a few live plants but I don't b'lieve they'd survive the trip," Hamfast said apologetically, hat in hand. Looking at the three of them, Bilbo realized they all had dirt ground into their knuckles and beneath their nails. They must have spent the entire morning on it to come up with such a selection, perhaps since before dawn, going through the Gamgee's collection, sorting out seeds and labels and whatnot.

"Mister Dwalin was able to give us an idea of what sort of garden you'd be working with and we've got all the seeds sorted," Bell said proudly, holding up the neatly wrapped package. "All labeled with what soil they need, watering, sunlight, what have you. I know your tomatoes are your pride, Mister Bilbo, so once they've ripened this year, we'll send off some seeds for those as well!"

Bilbo blinked hard, tears pricked his eyes, for he hadn't even considered what he'd do for a garden. Knowing that there was a great deal he was giving up to follow Thorin was different than having it so directly in his face.

"Are you all right?" Bell asked, worriedly, though her smile was more knowing. The three of them stood together anxiously, waiting for praise or nays.

"No, I'm just fine," Bilbo took a deep breath and thumbed at his eye, wiping away any threatening moisture. "And this, I…I cannot even begin to thank you, truly, this is a gift that I cannot measure. Of all the Hobbits in the Shire, I believe I shall miss you most of all."

Smiles broke out all around, though Bell and Hamfast were bright with cheer and Dwalin was…Dwalin. Still, their pride was obvious, the three of them brimming with delight. Bilbo clasped Hamfast and Bell on the shoulder, drawing the both of them in for a hug that was met with equal startlement and then pleasure. It was no wonder that Bell was teary herself as she drew away and Hamfast blew his nose nosily on his large red hanky.

"In all honesty, I'm very glad you're both here," Bilbo added, thumbing a trace of wetness from his eyes, "There was something I needed to speak to you about. I'll be leaving Bag End, likely for some time, and I'll need a caretaker. Someone I can trust. I was hoping I might persuade the two of you."

A matching set of flummoxed expressions greeted that and Bilbo hurriedly added, "I'd hoped you might consider staying in Bag End with your family. I think it does better with children in it, or so having Frodo has led me to believe. I think you both would care for Bag End as I would."

Hamfast puffed up with pride, standing a full inch taller. "Well, I think the wife and I might have to discuss it before we make any promises. Mind, I'll not expect to turn down the offer! Shall we come back tomorrow with an answer, Mister Bilbo? Would that do?"

And Bilbo noted with a jaundiced eye that Hamfast laid one well-callused hand on the back of Dwalin's neck, beneath the long fringe of what remained of his hair. A very _Dwarven_ gesture and Bilbo reminded himself firmly that he did not want to know. The bright red seeping up from beneath Dwalin's collar was only another layer of not asking and Dwalin bit into a cookie with sharp teeth, chewing it furiously.

"Of course," Bilbo agreed, and Bell flung her arms around him, dampening his shoulder with tears as he patted her shoulder awkwardly. The two of them nodded and goodbyed their way out the door, leaving behind the seed box and basket of cookies.

"That was very kind of them," Thorin said softly, then ruined it by rapping Dwalin smartly on the back of the head. "You might have said where you'd gone and saved me a worry."

Dwalin only coughed out a mouthful of crumbs, mumbling out, "Aye, you worried, I'm sure. And I left early this morning, while you were abed," Dwalin smirked, "If you'd prefer me to come into your bedroom ere I leave—"

"That will not be necessary," Bilbo told him, somewhat loudly. "Perhaps a note would be best."

"A note," Dwalin agreed, flexing his hand ruefully. "I spent the morning writing notes for your little collection of withered bits. Better have me over for dinner with a few of those when they've grown."

"I promise," Bilbo said absently, poking through the packets curiously and noting the third handwriting he'd not recognized. A flowing script of loops and curves, lovely as calligraphy and Bilbo raised an eyebrow to Dwalin and was met with a scowl.

"What?" Dwalin muttered, "Balin couldn't get the dance lessons to stick, he had to get me at something. Scribing was a quick way to please him and get back to weapons training."

"Of course," Bilbo agreed, hiding his chuckle. Thorin didn't bother, laughing aloud as he clapped Dwalin on the shoulder.

"Well, now that you've had a morning with the Gamgees, perhaps you'd be so kind as to help me for a change?" Thorin asked, a touch acidly. "Being that I am, in fact, your King."

"Aye, your Highness," Dwalin snorted, dusting crumbs from his beard. "At your command, I am."

"Ah, a longstanding wish, granted," Thorin said, clutching at his heart, though he chuckled when Dwalin pushed him roughly, the two of them more like young lads than grown Dwarves as they jostled each other. Between the two of them, they had the crates out of the hallway in no time, settled and strapped into the wagon.

Frodo only chortled along with them, whether or not he understood the joke, Underfoot and bothersome as only a young child could be, and just as likely to be scooped up for a hug and a tickle as he was to be gently set aside as they worked.

Bilbo only watched them, smiling to himself. This would be where his travels would lead him, he decided, to these three at the very least and whoever else waited in Erebor for them. It would be well worth the journey.

* * *

><p>end chapter 20<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

If love felt like indigestion then uncertainty was not much different, Bilbo decided; a nagging, shifting discomfort in his belly that was reminiscent of heartburn. Watching the growing stacks of crates in the wagon match the dwindling of his shelves in Bag End drew the sensation up sharply and Bilbo could only ignore it, working alongside Dwalin as he filled the little wagon.

Frodo was off with his little friends, a chance not only for him to spend time yet with them but also to keep him from underfoot and Thorin was off seeing to the purchase of another pony. Daisy, also known as Basil and perhaps occasionally by a few names that were better not to be translated, was strong enough to pull the wagon but a second pony would speed the task greatly. Or so Bilbo had been told.

That left him to pack things with Dwalin, much to his bemusement. A fine pair, they made, Bilbo boxing up books and papers and Dwalin making his opinion on that known on no uncertain terms.

"Do you know we have books in Erebor?" Dwalin grunted, situating another crate atop the others. Bilbo watched on fretfully, twisting his hands until Dwalin had it properly secured. The little wagon was not quite brimming with crates, though it was becoming a close thing. Near to the front, they'd been stacked in sturdy, well-tied piles, leaving a goodly area for Frodo to sit, to play or read as they traveled for surely the novelty of riding a pony would dull quickly.

In his short life, Frodo had only ever traveled from Brandy Hall to Hobbiton, a quick enough ride by wagon and not terribly far to walk. Bilbo thought wryly that the boy would be finding quickly that travels were hardly the unending adventure he believed. Certainly it was a lesson Bilbo had yet to forget.

Dwalin lifted another crate next to the first, strapping it down with rope, grumbling beneath his breath, "Aye, lots of books. Enough to keep any fool busy for a few lifetimes."

"Are there?" Bilbo said, politely absent. He carefully nailed the lid on the last crate of books, crammed tight with a stack of maps laid across the tiny space at the top.

"Yes!" Dwalin snorted, snatching it up almost before Bilbo gave the last tap to the last nail. "Not sure why you have to haul all these when there's already plenty."

"Point the first, those are not _my_ books," Bilbo pointed out, "Point the second, books are not interchangeable simply because they all have pages. You'd hardly take a replacement axe without a fuss, would you?"

"No, but an axe would be something useful," Dwalin snorted. "Thorin has plenty of books of his own. I wager you'll find them interesting enough."

"Still not my books," Bilbo said, singsong, "And besides, those are not all books, some of those are Frodo's toys. Perhaps you'd like to explain to him that you're tired of packing and would he be so kind as to leave a few behind."

Dwalin gave him a look of outrage, "I'd leave your underthings at the side of the road before I'd forget even one of that lad's parcels!"

"Indeed," Bilbo fought a smile, "Quite the treasure to anyone who found that box. Then I suppose you'd best get on it, since I'm afraid I've forgotten which box is which."

"I do hope you have a little more room in that claptrap you'll be carting along across the countryside."

The two of them turned towards the owner of that gruff, grouchy voice, Bilbo in astonishment to see Mungo trudging up the path, leaning heavily on a walking stick as he huffed his way along. Beside him, Ferdinand trotted alongside, quick on his feet despite being laden with parcels. Quick, yes, though he never darted in front of Mungo, the better to protect his backside from any erstwhile kicks.

"Oh, no," Bilbo shook his head, "No, no, you've already cleaned out my pocketbook quite enough this week, you old swindler!" Reckless to speak to Mungo so, but Bilbo supposed he wouldn't be needing to cater to Mungo's perilous whims any longer. That uncertain little lurch in his belly, the one that wondered _just what do you think you are doing, Bilbo Baggins,_ warbled up yet another protest. Mungo had been his tailor through his life, and now he would need to find another, and worse, a _Dwarven_ tailor, not that Thorin's clothes weren't magnificent and yet—

To his surprise, Mungo chortled aloud, clearly delighted by Bilbo's irritable spite. "Yes, you do fill my coffers, Mister Bilbo," He wagged a gnarled old finger at Bilbo, smirking, "Though I did not hear a word of protest from you about your pocketbook when that Dwarf of yours was prettied up in my work on the dance floor."

True enough, though Bilbo pointedly didn't grace that with a reply. To Bilbo's dismay, Dwalin came to stand next to him, glowering down at the little tailor, "This is the one who made that shirt, is it?"

"Ah, yes," Bilbo coughed, "Mungo Danderfluff, I don't believe you've met Mister Dwalin."

With grace that belied his age, Mungo bowed to Dwalin, "At your service, Master Dwarf. Any service you prefer." He favored Dwalin with an oily smirk, "And yes, I made 'that shirt' as you call it. Some of my best work, I do believe, even if it was in a Dwarven style. Your King looked quite fine in it, I think. Did you enjoy the view?"

Bilbo groaned inwardly as Dwalin puffed up like an angry rooster, cheeks reddening and his hands near creaked as he clenched them into fists; Bilbo was certain he was imagining how it would feel to wring the scrawny little tailor's neck. Next to them, Ferdinand shuffled, huffing beneath the weight of his packages while his Uncle seemed determined to test fate.

"The view!" Dwalin sputtered, "That view was more like what I'd expect to see in a whor—"

"If you'd like one of your own, I do take commissions," Mungo continued, relentlessly and seemingly oblivious to his own precarious state of living, "The folk at the party were most complimentary about it. Why, when I spoke to Missus Gamgee she mentioned that she thought it was quite a fine look. For a Dwarf."

At that, Dwalin baleful look melted into a blush more flustered than angry and he only shook his head, muttering as he took his leave about odd Hobbits and their queer notions. Bilbo sighed mournfully as his laborer abandoned him, to Mungo of all people.

"You needn't have chased him off," Bilbo scolded, casting a skeptical look at the crates that still needed loading.

"Chased him off?" Mungo said, all innocence, "I did no such thing, I spoke nothing but truth. Now, perhaps you'd invite us in to see what I'm offering before you decline it so rudely, Master Baggins? Or at least before my nephew collapses."

"Oh, very well," Bilbo sighed, stomping up to this door. Honestly, he'd had more visitors this past week than he'd had in months, and that didn't include a pair of troublesome Dwarves. "But I've only a bit of tea and perhaps a biscuit or two. My stores are rather empty, I'm afraid. We're…leaving tomorrow."

The words nearly stuck in his throat, that niggling uncertainly bobbed in his belly like a fish. Bilbo shoved the emotion down, rubbing his chest firmly. A cup of tea might very well be in order, tailor or no.

"Tea is quite fine," Mungo said, grunting as he took the stairs. "If you lot are off tomorrow then we are just in time."

"Thorin does not need more clothes," Bilbo said, a bit tartly as he led them through the door. Tartly and probably uselessly; already his curiosity was prickling to see whatever was in the parcels that Ferdinand was heaving along.

"Then it's just as well that these are for you," Mungo said, taking up the first package and ignoring the way Ferdinand sagged, panting, into a chair. "When I heard you'd decided to go along with your querulous little couple, I thought you might need something appropriate to take along."

"I was with the Dwarves before and my own clothes suited them fine enough then!" Bilbo said exasperatedly.

"And were you bedding their King then as well?" Mungo demanded, appallingly rude, Bilbo thought, as if Mungo had any right to mention their bedroom habits!

"I…" Bilbo began, heatedly, then faltered. "Oh." He sank down to sit in the chair, blinking hard. It was one thing to know that Thorin was a King, even to see him as a King, and quite another to realize he would be standing by his side when he acted as a King. Somehow in the midst of planning and packing, Bilbo had quite forgotten that. Having a handful of guards watching as a fellow stole a kiss would not compare to a kingdom doing the same.

Mungo tutted loudly, swatting at Ferdinand, who merely ducked automatically and scrambled back out the door without so much as a cup of tea. "Didn't think of that, did you."

"I suppose not," Bilbo murmured. He rose to his feet, hands moving automatically to the tea pot, measuring leaves and taking up the kettle of water already by the fire. Tea making was as simple to him as breathing, not taking a single thought, which was just as well. The uncertainty fish that had been leaping in his belly seemed to have found a mate, the pair of them tossing about gleefully.

"Hrmph," Mungo shook his head, snapping the twine on the first parcel, "I thought as much. You'll do fine, Mister Bilbo, I'm sure, but I think if you arrive in this, it will ease a few minds, including your own."

With a grand flick of his wrist, masterful as a showman, Mungo drew out a shirt and Bilbo set down the tea cups he'd gathered with a clatter, staring unabashedly. It was cut in his normal fashion, which was to say as a Hobbit would wear it. Not a match to Thorin's blue shirt and yet, somehow it seemed as though it would complement it. A lighter shade to foil Thorin's darker one and the sight of the waistcoat that Mungo laid against it made a peculiar sound catch in Bilbo's throat. Oh, my, that was lovely; black as twilight, the fabric woven with rich brocade and each handsome silver button perfectly aligned. The jacket nearly drew a moan from Bilbo, a deeper blue yet, made of lush velvet and finely embroidered cuffs and when Mungo paired the lot of it with a creamily-shaded ascot, he nearly melted to the ground like butter left on a summer windowsill.

Bilbo had always preferred burgundies, something Mungo well knew, but to be dressed so in Thorin's colors, he might very well feel worthy to stand by a King.

"Call it a gift," Mungo said before Bilbo could even stutter out a request for a price. "You've been a good customer to me over the years. My pocketbook will suffer grievously from your loss."

_Oh, I couldn't possibly_ was bitten off before the words could spill free. Bilbo was nearly speechless that Mungo would offer a gift, much less one like this, and it would be the grossest of ill-mannered behavior to insult his generosity. "I cannot thank you enough," Bilbo said, fingering the lapels. "It is lovely work."

"Of course it is," Mungo said smartly, whisking it away from Bilbo's eager fingers, brushing imaginary dirt from the collar. "Now," A familiar gleam came to his eye and Bilbo only shook his head ruefully. "If you like this one, conveniently I do have others that are of a similar style that I brought along with me."

"Let me see them," Bilbo sighed aloud, resigned to lining the tailor's pockets one last time. Honestly, how did Mungo manage? He and Ferdinand must only sleep in the winter months.

"Have a look if you must then wrap them up. We'll take them all," Came from the doorway and they both looked up to see Thorin in the doorway, both hands braced against the rounded jamb as he leaned in. Presumably his quest for a pony had been a success and his smile for Bilbo was warm.

"What—you can't!" Bilbo squawked, brown paper crumpling in his hands even as Mungo preened next to him, nearly rubbing his hands in glee.

"I can and I am," Thorin told him calmly. There was a streak of dust high on his cheek and Bilbo was taken with a desire to rub it away with a thumb. "If you're allowed to, I believe the phrase was 'tart me up', aren't I allowed the same liberties?"

"I did not—" Bilbo started indignantly, only to be drowned out by a shrewd tailor, who bowed with a smirk.

"I work to the vision of my patron," Mungo said smoothly, "And I am most pleased by your patronage."

"I'm sure," Thorin said dryly. "And I believe you needn't worry overly much about losing a customer. Erebor is far from Hobbiton but the paths of the trade routes are well established. If Bilbo prefers your work, I am more than willing to pay your commission."

"Indeed," There was a gleam in Mungo's beady eye and Bilbo sighed inwardly. It was good that the royal treasury was at Thorin's disposal. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement. Though, I'll have a promise from you now, if I might ask, your Highness."

"You may ask," Thorin frowned at him, no doubt wary of Mungo's sudden politeness. "I make no promises to my answer."

Mungo hesitated, so uncharacteristic of him that Bilbo nearly gaped, busying himself instead with the tea. "I have a nephew who has talent that rivals my own. His only fault is his stubborn resistance to venturing out past his front door. If I can persuade him, I'd ask that you give him welcome at your mountain. At Erebor," Mungo corrected and he bowed low, in the Dwarven style. "I think he would do well there, Thorin, son of Thrain."

"If you haven't trained him in the same sharpness of tongue," Thorin said dryly, "I think I can find room for another Hobbit."

"I am grateful for your generosity," Mungo said, bowing again, only to offer Bilbo a sharp scowl as an aside. "And what are you doing? I don't have the day to lollygag. Put that on and we'll check the fit."

"Of course," Bilbo sighed, setting aside the teapot as he began to unbutton his shirt.

"No!" They both hesitated, Bilbo astonished and Mungo glowering as Thorin stepped fully into the room, his face a mask.

"I beg your pardon?" Bilbo blinked at him.

"You can change in the other room," Thorin told him firmly, "You'll not do it here."

Bilbo's mouth dropped open, "You cannot be serious," Bilbo said, disbelieving. "Mungo has been my tailor for years; I can assure you, he has seen me and many others in various stages of undressed."

"He will not today," Thorin said, unrelenting. "Change in the bedroom."

The fish in his belly seemed to have swum upstream to his mouth and Bilbo gaped at Thorin a long moment before shutting it with a click, saying politely to Mungo, "Won't you excuse us?"

Mungo, true to his nature, only chuckled deviously, hobbling to the door. "Oh, you've picked a right one, Mister Bilbo."

Not a single pair of eyes so much as glanced his way, Hobbit and Dwarf glaring fiercely at each other in silence until the door finally clicked shut.

"Bilbo—" Thorin began, his voice a low growl.

"That was quite ridiculous," Bilbo cut in, having none of it. Uncertainty was giving way to sharp anger, his little internal fish would be cringing from the heat of his temper. "All he wanted to do was check the fit of the shirt and then you could have been rid of him."

"He was—"

"Not two days ago you were prancing around here shirtless before his nephew!"

"That was hardly my intention!"

"And when Mungo has a legitimate reason to see me shirtless, you take issue with it. Is this how it is to be in Erebor, then?" Bilbo demanded, having none of that. Better to nip any of this in the bud before they took a single step out his front door. "You barking orders and I'm to jump and follow them?"

"Of course not-"

"Because if so, I can tell you right now that I don't care for it very much!" Bilbo snapped, "I may not be a King or a Dwarf, but I am my own Hobbit, and I'll thank you not to be making choices for me!" He propped his hands on his hips as he glared up at Thorin. Only to be met with very much the same as Thorin snarled back at him.

"I'd prefer that he not watch you undress before I do!"

"Oh," Bilbo deflated, a hot blush rising in his cheeks. Well, that was still a bit senseless but rather understandable. "I thought…you changed my clothes that night. After the party."

Thorin managed to look indignant and angry in equal parts, surely an expression Dwarves had invented, alongside mulish stubbornness, "I was hardly going to take liberties when you weren't yourself!" A hot flush of color spread over his cheeks, not hidden nearly enough by his beard. "Not many," he amended in a mumble.

Oh, there was a confession that begged to be explored, though Bilbo only just managed to stifle his smile. If he laughed now, Thorin would certainly retreat into his anger and if he let this go, well, that would not do either.

Everything between them was still flushed with newness and little more than a few stolen kisses. Thorin was yet glaring, bright color high on his cheeks and Bilbo gave in to his urges, stepping up and cupping his face, rubbing away that streak of dust as he urged Thorin down until their foreheads rested together.

Thorin leaned into him, eyes closed, and Bilbo took the moment to steal yet another kiss, adding to his collection, the finest bit of burglary he'd ever managed. Soft lips against his own, the gentle scrape of a beard against his bare cheeks and Bilbo sighed into Thorin's mouth as he captured it yet again. Sweet, tender kisses that settled the leaping fish in his gut, uncertainty melting away.

He did not hear the door clicking open, although the grumbling shout of, "I don't have all day, Mister Bilbo!" was clear as day.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Bilbo muttered. Somehow his hands had found their way into Thorin's hair and he reluctantly forced them to loosen. Only to huff out a breath as he was caught up, strong arms clinging to him as Thorin stole a kiss of his own, his tongue a wet slide over Bilbo's lips, enticing him to give in and let Mungo go rot.

Instead, and with the greatest reluctance, Bilbo gently slipped free, kissing away the frown line between Thorin's eyebrows as he was unenthusiastically released. "You've nothing to be jealous about," Bilbo murmured to him. "But I'll change in the bedroom. This time," he added, warningly, and Thorin nodded mutely.

Freshly kissed, his mouth was damp and lush, ever tempting, and Bilbo forced himself to look away, gathering up Mungo's gift with trembling hands. He took two steps, then paused, casting an admonishing look at Thorin, "Stay here."

"Nothing else crossed my mind," Thorin told him, offering him a crooked little smirk that promised otherwise.

"Of course it didn't," Bilbo muttered and hurried out, pausing to hear no heavy boot steps following him. At least one of them needed to be strong and if Thorin followed him to the bedroom, Bilbo was quite sure it would not be him.

Almost, he did not lock the bedroom door then thought better of it, skinning out of his own clothing and dressing in his new offering with reverence. The fabric was as fine as any of his party clothes, soft beneath his hands, and as Bilbo buttoned up the waistcoat, he smoothed the cloth tenderly. The trousers were plainer, fitting closely and perhaps a touch longer than he normally wore them, closer to a Dwarven-style. A concession to the trends in his new home, perhaps, but whatever the reason, it matched well to the coat.

He gave the mirror only the quickest glance, nervously running a brush quickly over his feet, conscious that he'd been packing boxes all day. Then he straightened his spine and went back out, for Mungo was waiting to check the fit and he had little time to spend primping.

"Here I am," Bilbo said, stepping back into the kitchen. "Do you—"

Like it, Bilbo had been about to say, faltering as Thorin caught sight of him. His blue eyes widened, lips parting, and Bilbo could only stand, watching as Thorin took him in. Drank him in, his eyes roving greedily, and Bilbo swallowed to see the rising heat in those eyes, the pink flick of his tongue as Thorin wet his lips and he did not imagine the sudden clench of his fists, knuckles whitening as if Thorin was only just resisting the urge to carry him straight back to the bedroom.

Bilbo didn't believe he would protest.

"Yes, yes, that's a good fit," Mungo said and Bilbo nearly leapt out of his trousers, so startled was he at the gnarled little tailor's hands on him, tugging and measuring this way and that. "A bit snug, perhaps, but I'll wager it will fit perfectly once you get to that mountain of yours."

It was difficult to drag his eyes from the rising heat in Thorin's, Mungo's words hardly registering. Until…"Snug!" Bilbo exclaimed, indignantly.

"It's perfect," Thorin said, hoarsely, and Bilbo shivered, the deep note of that lovely voice tickling down his spine. "You're perfect."

"Hardly perfect," Bilbo tried to laugh, but it came out more as wistful. The whispering uncertainty that had plagued him today was difficult to hear over his heartbeat, thudding warmly as Thorin stepped in close, one hand rising and his thumb was gentle on Bilbo's lower lip.

"Perhaps," Thorin said, low, "But your imperfections are as dear to me as any of your strengths."

"And a poet as well," Mungo spoke up, sardonically, and Thorin jumped as if pinched, eyes widening in outrage. "I'd like to remind you both that I am standing here."

"How much must I pay for you to leave?" Thorin demanded and Bilbo very nearly groaned aloud, for surely the wealth of Erebor would be made to suffer this day.

Before Mungo could answer, the front door slammed opened, a clutter of tiny Hobbits and one large Dwarf stomping in, and Bilbo dropped his head into his hands, surrounded by demands for luncheon and childish giggles.

"Yes, yes, I'll have luncheon put together presently," Bilbo said loudly over the uproar, patting Frodo on the head even as he resisted the urge to push the lad straight back out the door. He loved his nephew, Bilbo reminded himself, he loved him very, very much and he was not about to neglect him to indulge in any scandalous afternoon delights.

No matter how much he wished he could.

With a sigh, Bilbo turned back to his bedroom, deciding to leave the haggling to Thorin. He was a Dwarf, surely they were excellent at bargaining. He left the crowd of them in the kitchen, padding back to his own rooms. Only to yelp in surprise as he was caught up and pressed urgently against the door, not even within the room as Thorin took his mouth in a fierce kiss.

"You didn't tell me not to follow you this time," Thorin breathed and Bilbo could only gasp, tipping his head back as Thorin dipped down to bite a gentle path up the line of his jaw. Oh, that was…anyone could walk down here and see…

"I thought it was implied," Bilbo hissed, hiccoughing on a moan as Thorin caught his earlobe between his teeth, sucking gently.

"You thought wrong," whispered damply against his ear, followed by a ticklish slide of tongue, delving along the whorls of his ear to the very tip and Bilbo bit his lip, struggling to hold back a whimper. A thick knee tucked itself between his legs, barely nudging against him and just as Bilbo arched against it, groaning, he was left bereft and cold as Thorin pulled away, nearly stumbling as he staggered back against the opposite wall.

The two of them stared at each other from across the short distance of the hallway, each of them panting and Bilbo swallowed hard as Thorin covered his face with a broad hand, visibly composing himself.

"Tonight," Thorin grated out, striding away and Bilbo heard the door open, slamming with frustrating force.

"Tonight," Bilbo whispered to no one and all and wondered if he'd survive it.

In his kitchen there were little Hobbits and a Dwarf, and perhaps even a tailor if Dwalin hadn't strangled Mungo by now. And Thorin had left him to deal with them.

Ah, the unfairness of the universe was staggering, it truly was. Bilbo went into his own bedroom and if he shut his door a bit firmer than necessary, well, he doubted any of those in his kitchen heard it over their own racket. Best to change into his own clothes to make luncheon, the better to keep these for his arrival at Erebor.

Besides, Mungo was right; the trousers did feel a tad snug.

* * *

><p>End Chapter 21<p> 


	22. Chapter 22

Changing back from Mungo's lovely gift into his own clothes did ease a little of the strain in his trousers, though Bilbo suspected that had more to do with the cool air than any flaws in the tailoring.

Tonight, Thorin had whispered, thick and hot into his ear and there the words seemed to linger, spreading tingling warmth down his neck and chest to settle decidedly lower.

Bilbo swallowed hard and shook himself firmly. He had a kitchen full of guests, and Dwalin, and he would need all his wits about him to deal with children and Mungo, not fluttering about in his skull like moths around a torch.

With a firm nod and a firmer resolve, Bilbo folded up his lovely new clothing and went back to his kitchen, ignoring any lingering pinch in his trousers and not thinking a bit about what tonight might entail.

His kitchen table was well occupied by three young Hobbits, each of them munching happily on a slice of Bilbo's fresh bread slathered liberally with the last of his elderberry jam, all of them smeared from ear to ear. Dwalin had his own plate and if he was not quite as liberally decorated as the children, he at least ate with the same enthusiasm. Next to him, and perhaps sitting closer than propriety dictated was Mungo, who only sipped at a cup of tea, eyeing the scene across from them with a jaundice eye.

To Bilbo's surprise, what held their interest was Ferdinand, who seemed to have returned with another set of packages, and Frodo with him. His nephew was standing atop one of his chairs, arms held out as Ferdinand puttered around him. The young tailor was muttering around the pins sticking out of his mouth, tugging here and there, checking the fit of the new clothes Frodo was dressed in and pausing to pin here and there when what he found dissatisfied him.

Frodo's small face held all the resigned gloom of any young Hobbit forced to watch as his fellows gobbled down treats directly in front of him. With barely stifled amusement, Bilbo spread jam thinly over one of the remaining slices of bread, tearing off a corner and offering the tidbit to Frodo. Who took it with such voraciousness that Bilbo was tempted to count his fingers after.

Ferdinand clucked softly, "Hold still! I'm not finished yet."

"You aren't," Mungo retorted, sharply, "The trousers are too long yet, tack them up."

"They aren't too long, either," Ferdinand retorted absently, tugging at the offending trousers. "He'll grow up before he grows out. If I tack them too high, he'll not wear them a month."

"Leave them as they are and he'll look a fool!" Mungo snapped. "I said tack them up and if they need let down, one of the…" he hesitated, looking for all the world as if he'd just swallowed a fly in his tea. "One of their tailors can let them back down."

To his credit, Ferdinand seemed just as appalled; the two Hobbit tailors both looked at Dwalin's clothes with equal distaste. Dwalin was oblivious to their regard, slathering jam on another slice of bread. He'd probably eaten half the loaf himself, Bilbo thought with resigned amusement.

With visible reluctance, Ferdinand began to tack up Frodo's trousers and Bilbo snuck the lad another morsel, taking a good look at his new clothes. They were a close match to Bilbo's without being annoyingly similar. Slightly looser despite Ferdinand's fussing, giving the lad some room to grow and made of sturdier cloth than Bilbo's, not quite so fine to make up for the fact that Frodo would be far more likely to be rolling around on the ground in his than Bilbo was.

Unless tonight…

Bilbo put that thought firmly out of his mind, giving Frodo a warm smile that was happily returned now that Frodo wasn't left out of the treats. "You look quite handsome, my boy," Bilbo told him.

"Aye, he's fine enough," Dwalin mumbled around a mouthful. "Seems a lot of fuss for a young lad."

"Young lad or not, he should be dressed well," Mungo said sharply, and Bilbo cringed, expecting an explosion of temper at his kitchen table. He was not entirely sure it wasn't worse that instead of shouting, Mungo's voice dropped to a wretched sort of purr as he added, "I'd be happy to get your measurements and have something ready for you in the morning."

He was completely sure that he was grateful for Dwalin's obliviousness to that blatant invitation, only grunting out, "I've clothes enough. Don't need any of that frippery."

The other children seemed equally bored of the entire matter. Merry licked his sticky fingers in an appalling display of lack of manners, eyeing Frodo discontentedly. "Does this mean we have to call him Your Highness now?" Merry whined, his lower lip poking out with jam-stained unhappiness.

Samwise and Pippin looked equally alarmed at the very thought and Bilbo hastened to reassure them, "Of course not. He's Frodo to you lads and to anyone else, and that is what he will remain."

"I don't want to be Your Highness," Frodo added, his small faced filled with relief.

Dwalin snorted aloud. "The only your Highness around these parts is your Uncle Thorin, lad, you haven't a fear."

"Good," Frodo nodded stoutly, then froze at a hissed admonishment from Ferdinand. Bilbo slipped him another tidbit in defiance and as he chewed, Frodo's expression turned thoughtful. "If you marry Uncle Thorin, will you be a Your Highness?"

"I…" Bilbo floundered. "That is…you see…" A touch helpless, Bilbo looked to the other adults. Both of whom only met his struggling with great interest, Dwalin leaning forward in his chair as if to hear his reply all the better and Mungo gesturing impatiently for him to finish. "We'll discuss that later, my boy," Bilbo told him firmly, and ignored those two unhelpful louts.

Frodo did not seem inclined to let it go, his face clouding mutinously, and never had Bilbo been so grateful for a knock at the door. Before he could escape to it, the front door popped open and Hamfast poked his head inside, calling a soft, "Hallo?"

"In here," Bilbo called back and Hamfast trundled in agreeably, sweeping off his hat.

"Good morning," Hamfast said cheerily, echoed by the children and he gave Frodo a broad smile. "Well! You're looking a fine lad today, aren't you, m'boy?"

"Yes, sir," Frodo sighed out resignedly and at his feet, Ferdinand let out a muffled chuckle, taking the pins from his mouth.

"You're quite finished," Ferdinand told him, and he grinned like the lad he was at Frodo's happy shout. "Let's get you changed out of those so I can finish them up, shall we." His smile to Bilbo was that of the oily salesperson who'd learned his uncle's tricks, bowing smoothly. "I'll have these back for your approval tomorrow morning, shall I?"

"Not too early," Dwalin growled, "We could use a last good night's sleep."

"Of course," Ferdinand gave Dwalin that same smooth bow and helped Frodo down from the chair, assisting him in a slow waddle to his room to prevent a stray pin poke.

"Aye, your last night here," Hamfast said, slowly, and he gave the room a glance, taking in the emptiness of the pantry. Bilbo's study was worse; nearly all of it packed away in crates and loaded into the wagon. The ache of the sight of that was eclipsed thus far by Bilbo's urge to be on the road, to be traveling again with Dwarves, to see Erebor, and yet, it was still there, a niggling little hurt.

It was all right, Bilbo told himself, more than all right to feel thus and it did not mean he'd rather not go.

Hamfast was twisting his hat in his hands, his hair standing in unruly tufts. "Well, the wife and I, we talked it over, we did, and Mister Bilbo, we'd be happy to be caretakers of Bag End for you. More than happy, we would."

Bilbo had expected as much but it was still a relief to hear it. "Ah, good, wonderful," he sighed, clapping Hamfast on one shoulder. "I'll not worry knowing that Bag End is in your capable hands."

"We'll be staying here, then, Da?" Samwise piped up, his eyes wide and Hamfast chuckled.

"We'll be here looking out for Mister Bilbo's home," Hamfast said firmly. "And I'll be expecting you and your sisters to have a care."

"You'll be staying here?" came from the doorway where Frodo stood. He was dressed in his own clothes and something small in his voice set that kernel of worry to sprouting in Bilbo's gut.

"Frodo," Bilbo began and he watched helplessly as Frodo ran back out of the room, nearly running headlong into Ferdinand as he came up behind him.

Bilbo stood, trying to decide if he should give the lad a moment or chase after him when a strong hand settled on his shoulder. "He'll be all right," Hamfast told him, low, "You're doing fine by him, Mister Bilbo, you are."

"I'm trying," Bilbo admitted, softly, "I am."

The hand on his shoulder had dirt ground into the knuckles that no amount of scrubbing would loosen and yet it was still a welcome touch, clasping Bilbo firmly. "And you're making a good job of it. Give the lad a moment, he'll be all right."

Before Bilbo could reply, Frodo darted back into the room, his newly carved wooden Dwarf in hand. He went up to Samwise, his blue eyes solemn, and with a single nervous glance at Dwalin, he held out the toy.

"Mister Dwalin made me this as a go away present," Frodo told Samwise, "But now I am going away with him so can you watch it for me? Until I come back?"

Reverently, Samwise took the carved wooden soldier, smoothing hands that were much like his father's over the fine features. "Are you—" Samwise swallowed hard, his brown eyes wide, "You're sure?"

Frodo nodded urgently. "Yes. You can keep it in my room," he added eagerly. "Like a promise!"

"A promise," Samwise repeated, softly, then added stoutly, "Aye, I'll keep it for you, Mister Frodo! I will!"

Frodo's smile was brilliant. "Thank you, Sam!" He turned that smile to Bilbo and Dwalin, "Are we ready to go, then?"

"Yes, my lad," Bilbo said, with a soft smile of his own. "I do believe we are."

It was Mungo who broke the moment with a loud harrumph. "Well, I believe that is goodbye for the two of us, then. Ferdinand will bring over the boy's clothes first thing. I trust you'll settle your accounts before haring off to the mountains?" Mungo added, his bushy eyebrows rising.

"Of course," Bilbo said indignantly, though Mungo did not seem to hear him with his attention on Dwalin.

"And you," Mungo said in that wretched purr, laying a hand on Dwalin's shoulder. Whatever he meant to say was interrupted not by Dwalin taking his arm off at the elbow, as Bilbo had expected with cringing dismay, but rather from Hamfast and a pointedly cleared throat.

Mungo gave Hamfast a hard glance and whatever communication the two of those managed between bobbing eyebrows and piercing eyes seemed sufficient. Mungo lifted both hands and held them up placatingly.

"I believe I'll trust you to commission your own wardrobe," Mungo finished smoothly. "Come along, Ferdinand. Good day."

With that, Mungo swanned out of Bag End with all the dignity one might expect from a surly old tailor who needed a walking stick, Ferdinand offering a little wave as he closed the door behind them.

Bilbo could only watch with bemusement as Hamfast crammed his hat back on his head and took Mungo's abandoned seat next to Dwalin. "Is that elderberry jam, lads?" Hamfast asked happily, and took a slice of bread for himself, "Don't mind if I do!"

Dwalin said nothing, not even when Bilbo raised a brow to him, though his cheeks did flush a certain shade of pink when Hamfast laid an absent hand on his shoulder, just where Mungo's had been moments before.

Do not want to know, Bilbo reminded himself and took a chair of his own.

Thorin did not return during luncheon.

* * *

><p>Nor did he return during dinner, nor supper, and it was past the time Bilbo had tucked Frodo into his bed before he heard familiar heavy footsteps in his hallway, hesitating just outside his door.<p>

Bilbo said nothing, resisted the urge to call out an invitation. He hadn't meant to hide away in his bedroom, waiting with mingled worry and anticipation for Thorin to return. Or perhaps he had, for something had to draw Thorin in and if he must use himself to bait a trap for a recalcitrant Dwarf, then Bilbo would do as he must.

Long moments passed and Bilbo kept his seat in front of his small fireplace, enjoying the warmth for the summer night was somewhat chilly. Finally, the door opened and closed quietly and he cast a sidelong look at Thorin, who stood by the door looking uncertain.

"We've ponies enough for the trip now," Thorin told him, as though expecting that Bilbo had been fretting the entire day about that very thing. Standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest and looking at the floor, he looked rather like Frodo whenever he'd been caught in some childish mischief and Bilbo found his heart melting at the sight just as much as he did with Frodo.

Bilbo offered him a smile that held forgiveness for the abandonment, "That's good then," he said, simply. "Come sit with me?"

Hastily, Thorin complied, though to Bilbo's amusement, Thorin chose to sit at his feet rather than the chair opposite. He let his head drop back into Bilbo's lap, looking up at him upside-down.

"Are you thinking?" Thorin asked softly. His eyes searched Bilbo's face anxiously, though what he sought, Bilbo was not certain.

"No," Bilbo admitted. "Not really. I think I just wanted to take a moment and enjoy the fire. I'm not likely to have another chance for a bit, am I?"

"Not like this, no," Thorin said, "Although it won't be as terrible as you imagine, I think. Our quest is not a hidden one this time, we'll be staying in inns along the main roads whenever possible."

"Oh? Perhaps Dwalin is right, the kingship has left you soft," Bilbo teased.

Thorin snorted aloud, "The two of you are welcome to make your beds on the hard ground if it would prove your strength. I've done it often enough in my life that I believe I am past the need for demonstration."

With his head in Bilbo's lap, his hair pooled over Bilbo's knees and Bilbo gave in to an urge, gathering up a handful of the long strands and let them slide through his loose grip.

When Thorin offered no protest, Bilbo did it again, slowly, fascinated by the silkiness against his palm. The curls caught at his fingers, parting beneath the comb of his fingertips as he touched as far as he could reach. He lifted his hand and began again, long, slow sweeps of his hands as he gently untangled the length of Thorin's hair. It occurred to him somewhat belatedly that he was rather petting him, as though Thorin were a pony and, flustered, he stilled his hand, fingers still buried to the knuckles.

Only to have Thorin shift against him in obvious complaint, pushing his head up against Bilbo's hand and he hastily complied, burying his fingers in the heavy, soft length of it. Lightly, he scratched at the scalp with his nails and Thorin groaned aloud, a low rumble deep in his chest and perhaps Bilbo was mistaken; none of the ponies he'd ever met had ever growled at him before.

Uncertainly, Bilbo added a second hand and any moment now he expected Thorin to ask him just what he thought he was doing. Of all his titles, 'family pet' should never be used to describe Thorin. But that was exactly what Bilbo was doing, petting and stroking those long tresses, twining hanks around his fingers and marveling at the glorious softness of it, surely the only softness Thorin possessed.

Thorin said nothing, not a protest nor even a question. He only tipped his head into Bilbo's hands whenever they stilled, sighing deeply when Bilbo discovered his ears, tracing the odd curve with his fingertips. The heavy braid that lay there fell across Bilbo's knuckle and with a moment of shy hesitation, Bilbo wrapped it around his hand. The silken rope circled his hand twice, the heavy bead at the end fit in his palm and Bilbo ducked his chin to look at it. The dark cord was stark against his paler hand, the weave strange as he ran his thumb along it. It occurred to Bilbo he'd never really touched braided hair, not since he'd been a child and perhaps given a young lass's hair a tug.

Though even the loveliest young miss in the Shire could not have hair that compared the thick fall of Thorin's.

"Carefully," Thorin said, low, and Bilbo startled, realizing that Thorin was suddenly tense against him, his languid mood of earlier vanished. Lost when Bilbo had taken hold of his braid and he flushed, carefully unwinding it.

A strong hand caught his, thick fingers stilling his nervous retreat and a thumb pressing the woven hair against his palm, "No…you may touch. Do not undo them."

Bilbo swallowed and carefully wrapped the length of it around his hand again. This was…this was some honor he was being offered, that much he understood, and unfamiliar as he was with some Dwarven customs, he felt privileged nonetheless that Thorin would allow him.

Carefully, he sank his fingers back into Thorin's hair, the braid still wound around one, and when Thorin lifted his head, he took Bilbo's hands with it. With a hand of his own, Thorin reached up, threaded his fingers into Bilbo's hair with wincing firmness. As though in apology, he rubbed Bilbo's scalp and it was his turn to groan, pushing against those stroking fingers and if Thorin was a growly pony, Bilbo was perhaps a puppy, eager to be petted and stroked. Begging for caresses.

Thorin chuckled deeply, "You are insatiable."

He didn't sound like he minded, yet Bilbo scowled at him anyway. "You're the one fondling my head."

"I?" Thorin shook his head lightly as if to remind Bilbo just whose hands were where. "I do believe if there was any fondling, it was you who began it."

"Oh, I'm not to blame for that," Bilbo said airily, wiggling his fingers deeper into the silken tresses.

"No?" Thorin raised a brow at him, waiting with exaggerated patience.

"Of course not. Why, not a soul in Middle-earth would blame me for taking a hand of this," Bilbo lifted a handful of Thorin's hair, letting it slither ticklishly through his fingers. "You're the one who put it within reach, so I'm afraid the fault is yours."

Thorin shook with silent laughter, sighing as Bilbo combed his hair back from his face. Uselessly, it all fell forward again the moment he released it, but Bilbo didn't mind trying again. "I had no idea my hair was so irresistible to Hobbits."

"To anyone," Bilbo corrected. "I admit, I'm surprised you're able to walk anywhere without a person or two having a hand stuck in it, following you about. It's a terrible burden for you, to be sure."

Thorin was quivering with suppressed laughter and knowing that sent a thrill through Bilbo, that he could make such a person as Thorin both moan and laugh, in equal parts.

"Aye," Thorin strained out, still shaking. "We all have our burdens to bear, do we not?"

"We do," Bilbo took a breath and said firmly. "Just now mine seems to be that you've yet to take me to my bed."

"I…" Thorin swallowed and Bilbo watched the bob of his throat, watched as Thorin wet his lips. "I think that is a burden you should not carry much longer."

A hot thrill rushed up Bilbo's spine and the moment Thorin lifted his head from his lap, Bilbo was on his feet, catching both of Thorin's hands and drawing him to the bed. Thorin followed, slowly, such a mixture of obvious desire and resistance that Bilbo paused and he nearly asked if something was wrong. Only to have Thorin duck his head and drop a damp little kiss on the tip of his nose.

Bilbo stared cross-eyed as Thorin did it again, "Why my nose?"

"It's always begging me for kisses."

Bilbo gaped at him, nose in question twitching. "It does not."

"Oh, but it does," Thorin assured him, "Your body is full of betrayers, pleading with me for kisses. You may count yourself lucky that I have the control to resist."

"You are quite ridiculous," Bilbo told him, smiling helplessly.

"It is very true," Thorin insisted. He raised Bilbo's hand to his mouth, pressed a damp kiss at the inside of his wrist. "Here. Every time you reach for something and the sleeve of your shirt pulls away, right here pleads with me for a kiss."

"That's..." Bilbo caught his breath, biting the tip of his tongue lightly. "That's hardly often, my shirts are well-fitted."

"Mmm," Thorin hummed softly, "True, but there are other places. Here," he ducked his head and Bilbo squirmed at the ticklish press of beard beneath his ear, coupled with a hot mouth against the tender skin. "Here," Thorin breathed and Bilbo shivered, helplessly, "When you turn your head, when you look up at the sky, this little place called to me in desperation, admonishing me for my cruelty as I dared not obey."

"I don't spend my days staring up at the sky like a lost turkey," Bilbo squirmed, stuttering out a sigh as Thorin drew his mouth lightly up his ear, his tongue a slick caress against the point of it, lapping gently.

A low chuckle greeted that statement, rumbling low enough that Bilbo felt it carry through him. Again, the wet velvet touch of tongue traced his ear back to the lobe and there an edge of teeth worried the softness there gently before Thorin murmured, "No, you do not stare at the sky often. But-"

His fingers were gentle on Bilbo's chin, tilting his head up as his thumb ran lightly over his lower lip, pausing at the center where it was plumpest.

"Here," Thorin breathed. "Right here, begs me for kisses. Even now, it beseeches me, imploring me. Do I ignore it yet again, refusing it the mercy it so tenderly asks of me?"

Bilbo twisted out of his arms, easily, kneeling before Thorin as he pressed their mouths together fervently, whimpering as Thorin took his mouth with the same tenderness as his other kisses, his tongue dipping against Bilbo's, slicking over his lower lip in that little place that he swore pleaded for this very kiss.

"You do not need to be a beggar for my affections," Thorin whispered into his mouth, stealing another languid kiss. "For I would shower you with their riches."

His voice, crooning low, was a treasure of its own and Bilbo swallowed back a whimper. Here they were on his bed exchanging nothing more than the softest of kisses, hardly even touching but for their mouths, and already there was a throb of warmth low in his belly.

"Would you?" Bilbo asked and the hoarseness of the words gave voice to his growing need. "Then offer it with haste! I've heard your poetry before, I think I'd like something more substantial tonight."

To his dismay, Thorin drew away, and again, his thumb drew over Bilbo's mouth, lingering against his lower lip. Bilbo imagined it might be faintly swollen with kisses, as Thorin's was, his lips berry-red and yes, he supposed he could believe a mouth or a wrist or even a nose might plead for a kiss, because Thorin's begged for Bilbo to steal yet another.

Thorin's hand kept him from his wish and Bilbo could only stifle an impatient sigh. If he was to be showered with affection, then surely Thorin could begin at his leisure!

"I have dreamt of this," Thorin began and something in his tone settled Bilbo's exasperation. It had the air of a confession and Bilbo made an encouraging sound, taking Thorin's hand in his own and pressing a tender kiss to his palm. Thorin closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, and words left him in a rush. "I…when I allowed myself to think of you, I dreamt of you in my bed. Of the taste of your mouth, the softness of your skin against me. I dreamt …I dreamt of many things."

Bilbo swallowed, thickly, and his own voice was a weak thread, "Did you?" His own imagination offered him a picture of what that might entail, of Thorin sprawled out on an opulent bed, his hair a wild tangle about his head, bare against the sheets. Better, he imagined what Thorin would look like against his own sheets, for that he'd seen before. A lack of clothing would add to the appeal, he was certain.

"I did," Thorin said, hushed. "I dreamt of you. I envisioned the sounds you would make, the sight of your teeth digging into your lip as I touched you. I thought of laying my hands on you." And here his hand drifted from Bilbo's mouth, fingertips trailing down until his palm was pressed to Bilbo's chest, bleeding warmth through his thin shirt. "Touching you until you would plead with me, begging me for more, trembling beneath me, I-"

"I'm pleading now," Bilbo caught his hand, held it close as he leaned in to stifle Thorin's flow of words, honestly afraid Thorin intended to talk him to competition and worse, he had no doubt Thorin could manage it. "I'm here. Touch me, please."

Blue eyes closed, lashes trembling, and the hand in Bilbo's squeezed tightly, his mouth bewilderingly hesitant beneath Bilbo's as he stole another damp kiss, another, coaxingly, his tongue gentle against Thorin's oddly lax one. He allowed Thorin to break the kiss, searched those eyes with his own. The want was there, hot and brilliant in blue depths, barely banked desire, and yet…Bilbo caught his breath as Thorin ground out, "I have dreamt of you, and yet…as I said, I do not get to keep the things I love."

He shook his head before Thorin could finish, cupping his face in his hands as he peppered it with soft kisses, combing his fingers through the softness of his beard as he caught his mouth again and again, insistently, as if he could pour assurances through them. "You can keep me," Bilbo told him raggedly, "You can, as long as you like. You'd have to tie me in a sack to keep me here."

Sweet, soft kisses shifted, gentle sweeps of tongue firming, teeth catching as Bilbo caught Thorin low moan, his own stifled into a sudden harsh press of lips. His bed was abruptly soft beneath his shoulders, Thorin a heavy weight over him and his teeth were delightfully abrupt against his jaw, biting a ragged line down his throat as his hands swept up Bilbo's sides, dragging his shirt from his trousers. With his shirt rucked up beneath his arms, his belly was left bare. His body was a Hobbit's, no question of that, his belly was not the hard wall of a Dwarf's but soft with a little pudgy roll over the waistband of his trousers. Hardly an invitation, or so Bilbo would have thought. Thorin seemed to disagree, burying his face into the softness, mouthing wetly and the scrape of his beard drew a breathless laugh from Bilbo, the odd, unfamiliar tickle of it.

A pause, and Thorin lifted his head, his long hair dragging and with it came a new tickle, one that made Bilbo squirm, huffing out another laugh. "Stop…" Bilbo laughed, "Not so sof—t!" He squealed aloud as Thorin ran his fingers down Bilbo's sides ticklishly, one brow rising as Bilbo thrashed wildly.

"I am not a child, stop it!" Bilbo wailed, pushing at Thorin frantically. Honestly, this was where his bedroom adventures would lead.

"Of course you aren't a child," Thorin said placidly, even as he drew his wriggling fingers down Bilbo's sides again. "There's nothing childish at all about this."

"...stop it!" Bilbo protested, torn between laughing and squirming, aware even through his thrashing how lovely it was to wriggle against Thorin. "I cannot...I cannot even breathe!"

"I'll breathe for you," Thorin promised, and his hands skirted lower, cupping Bilbo's backside firmly as he pressed a wet kiss just above the waistband of Bilbo's trousers. Ticklish thoughts fled at the touch, the bristle of beard tantalized, the coolness of the bead threaded into it tracing a delicate trail as Thorin mouthed along the edge of his trousers. Nuzzling the softness of his belly and Bilbo might have blushed miserably, aware that Hobbits and Dwarves were not alike in this. Might have, if the touch of Thorin's mouth and hands had been anything less than reverent, if his tongue hadn't lapped and tasted his skin, tracing patterns and runes that Bilbo could not hope to understand.

Thorin withdrew and sat back on his heels, and Bilbo whined a protest, rising on his elbows, already reaching for him. Only to fall back with another low cry as Thorin's hand curled around his knee, drawing his leg up so that he could duck his head, biting a kiss against Bilbo's calf.

"Are you ticklish here as well?" Thorin murmured, rubbing his bearded cheek against soft skin, seeking and finding a place that drew an exclamation. "Perhaps this? You're quite soft here."

"That..." Bilbo let out a soft gasp, "That does not...tickle."

"No?" A warm murmur against the inside of his knee, lips tracing a higher path. The scrape of his beard had somehow changed from unbearably tickly to deliciously abrading. Thick fingers drew the leg of his trousers aside, allowing Thorin to press his mouth to the tender skin at the inside of his thigh.

"Even your legs seem bare," Thorin said, a low note of wonder in his tone. "Soft as a peach."

"Just don't bite," Bilbo said, weakly, then yelped as teeth lightly grazed his skin.

"I make no promises," Whispered darkly against him, another bite laid against his skin, the even line of teeth digging in too lightly to bruise.

Oh, heavens. Bilbo stared up at his ceiling dazedly, clutching handfuls of his coverlet. Those soft, nuzzling kisses against his thigh, the slithery tickle of long hair against his knee as Thorin abandoned one leg and discovered the other. Bilbo was not entirely convinced this wasn't a dream of his own. Perhaps even now he was burrowed into his blankets, lost in a ludicrous fantasy that Thorin was kneeling between his legs, kissing him sweetly and stroking the soft well behind his knee with a broad thumb.

A sharp nip disabused him of that and Bilbo yelped, glaring down to at Thorin. Who only cast him a look of owl-eyed innocence, kissing the tiny patch of reddened skin. "I did not want you to fall asleep."

"I have not felt less like sleeping in my life," Bilbo told him dryly. "And I should think you could see that from that angle." It was Took-ishly daring to slide a hand gingerly down his bare belly to lightly cup the swelling of his groin. Even so, a hot, embarrassed flush rose in Bilbo's cheeks, though he met Thorin's kindling gaze with defiance. If Thorin needed directions, Bilbo was more than happy to provide.

"Let me," Thorin whispered and Bilbo gulped, nodding mindlessly at the hunger in his voice. Thorin crawled up and drew Bilbo's hand away with his own, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He made quick work of the buttons, smoothing the plackets aside and Bilbo huffed a sharp breath at the ease of pressure, choked on it as thick fingers found him, trailing softly over his length.

His trousers were a hindrance not to be borne and Bilbo squirmed, whispered a pained, "Wait, wait," as he pushed them down his hips. With Thorin's sudden understanding came assistance and between the two of them they tugged trousers and underclothing down to his knees, where Bilbo could kick them off without a pause to mourn the wrinkles they would surely get.

It added another layer to the certainty this was not a dream, Bilbo decided wryly, for no fantasy of his would ever have him lying bared from his chest down before Thorin, who was very much clothed. Entirely unfair, really, for the only part of Thorin to be uncovered were his feet, and lovely as they were, Bilbo could think of a few other bits he'd prefer to see just then.

His thoughts were scattered as easily as the first leaves of autumn at the first touch of Thorin's hand. Broad fingers curled around him, cool against overheated skin, and Bilbo gasped, his tongue curling against his teeth as he struggled for words. His capacity for speech skittered away as Thorin rubbed his thumb over the tip, his touch light, almost curious.

"You—" Bilbo caught his breath as Thorin gave an experimental stroke, fingers squeezing him lightly. Bilbo shuddered, croaking out, "You…please, do, take your time."

His sarcasm fell upon deaf ears, for Thorin only hummed thoughtfully. "I shall. You are too lovely to be rushed."

"Lovely," Bilbo managed, less scoffing than a moan, though his protest at the title was obvious.

"Lovely," Thorin insisted. He leaned up, nearly covering Bilbo though his hand never ceased its exploration. His weight was eagerly welcomed, the silky fabric of his shirt dragging against Bilbo's bare skin, his rougher trousers a light abrasion against Bilbo's inner thighs. His mouth caught Bilbo's, softly. "I would kiss every bit of your skin," he whispered fiercely, "I would taste every part of you, touch you, I would—"

Bilbo caught hold of his trailing hair, winding his fingers through it and took his mouth in a hard kiss, biting his lower lip until Thorin moaned raggedly. "Let's start with the basics, shall we?" Bilbo panted, groaning as Thorin's hand finally found a rhythm, stroking with purpose.

"Yes," Thorin groaned and Bilbo cried out in wounded protest when he was released, yanking on soft curls in protest until the fumbling between them became clear. Yes, oh, yes, that was a lovely idea, perfect, yes, and Bilbo tugged his hands free, worming them between their bodies. Between the two of them, they fumbled the lacings of his trousers loose and Bilbo pushed both hands inside, cupping the heavy length in his palms.

Above him, Thorin shuddered, the hard blow of his breath against Bilbo's neck drawing up goosebumps. Hot, damp skin against his fingers and the heaviness of his erection filled Bilbo's hands to overflowing. Thorin was not small, not in height nor in any of his parts and Bilbo could only whimper, tightening his grip as Thorin met his touch by returning his own, circling Bilbo's length with a rough hold.

His fingers were so large, calluses lending texture to his grip and dimly Bilbo wondered at how his own hands must feel to Thorin. Too soft, perhaps, his grip too gentle, too tentative…only Thorin was panting above him, his mouth sliding against Bilbo's, smearing a kiss against his lips. "Oh, you," Thorin groaned, "So hard already, you—I've hardly touched you."

A completely unfair observation, for Thorin was just as hard and eager in his own hands. Had he the words Bilbo might have pointed out he'd waited days for this, waited years, waited without even knowing what he'd waited for, stifled back dreams he'd thought impossible, hidden from knowledge he couldn't believe to be true. He'd done his waiting and now he could only touch, hips rising to meet the slide of Thorin's hand.

Thorin's mouth was a hot summer storm against Bilbo's ear, all damp breath and heat, words tumbling from him in a dark, thunderous rush, "I would carry you to my bed in Erebor, in my mountain, I would lay you back against my furs, push you to your knees and have you. I would…I _will_ take you, claim you, I want to taste you wet on my tongue, I want to lay you bare, feel you tremble against me, I—" Thorin's rich voice cracked, garbled into incoherent groans as Bilbo sank his teeth into the thin skin at his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. He rambled on, hands stroking, riding Bilbo's slickening grip. "I want you to have me, feel you deep inside me, I want…Bilbo…I…"

It was more than anyone should have to bear, that fervent outpouring of want and need and Bilbo worked his hands in the small space between them, muffling his own moans and cries into Thorin's throat. They were as close as they could be without crawling into each other's skins, hands moving frantically.

"I want to feel you come," Thorin moaned and the edge Bilbo had been trembling on crumpled beneath him. He arched up with a cry, Thorin's hand going slick around him as he gave in to Thorin's desperate wish, burying his shout into the silken tangle of hair falling around him. Dimly, he could taste strands of it, taste his own sweat beading on his upper lip as he writhed and crested, gulped in air that was smoggy with the smell of their sex, a clotted, desperate cry breaking loose from the tightness of his throat.

It took long moments for Bilbo to be aware of anything past his own hammering heartbeat, collapsed limply back against the coverlet. He became dimly aware of a hand clasped tightly over both of his own, forcing them into movement. He obeyed with drowsy contentment, following their urgency languidly, tightening his grip. Thorin hissed at the touch, hips driving forward, crushing their combined hands between their bellies.

It was all awkward, tangled fingers and hands, Bilbo struggling back to a clumsy speed as Thorin panted against him and he forced his eyes to open, peering out through the cage of his lashes. Bilbo's eyes widened quickly at the sight before him; Thorin's face blurrily close and charming for all that. Ruddy color high in his cheeks, wet with trails of dampness leading from his temples. His eyes were tightly shut, mouth open as he dragged in huge gulps of air, the heavy, darkness of his hair clinging damply to his forehead, his cheeks, tangled into his beard. Low, rhythmic sounds escaped from deep in Thorin's throat, a wavering pulse of song as lovely as Bilbo had ever heard.

A debauched King was above him, a decadent treasure that was not one he could ever have stolen, only taken as the gift it was.

Bilbo watched as Thorin's face tightened, even teeth sank into his lower lip, all sense deserting him in watching Thorin find his peak. The cry that hissed through his teeth gave warning, a ragged, broken sound and then wet heat pulsed over Bilbo's hands. Thorin's weight sagged against him heavily, forcing his breath to come up short and still, Bilbo only watched, saw Thorin's expression crumple, watched him tremble until his head dropped to Bilbo's shoulder, gasping as he slumped.

Sense enough returned to him for Bilbo to realize that Dwarves, or at least this Dwarf, were quite heavy. Breathing was becoming a task rather than an assumption and yet, Bilbo was happy not to move, taking what air he could, content to feel Thorin against him.

Contentment was his far too briefly as Thorin finally lifted his head, shifting to roll to the side despite Bilbo's murmured protests. All complaints vanished when Thorin sat up, making quick work of his shirt and trousers. It was a sight that was not to be missed, to Bilbo's mind, and he propped his chin on one hand, watching as Thorin was bared to his greedy eyes.

For all that he'd seen Thorin's bare chest a handful of times this week, never had he seen it when he was allowed to touch, a temptation that was not to be resisted, not by this Took's son. Bilbo gave into the urge to sweep a slightly sticky hand along Thorin's shoulder, testing the firmness of muscle beneath smooth skin. He trailed his fingers down the arm, traced the body-warmed metal of Thorin's arm band and felt the delicate runes carved into it. The ball of his bicep filled Bilbo's palm to overflowing, flexing beneath his touch and the inside of his elbow was silken, showing the blue traceries of his veins.

Thorin huffed softly, his mouth curving into a smile, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"I am," Bilbo admitted. There was a long, ragged scar across Thorin's ribs and Bilbo traced it, wondering at the wound. Surely it did not hurt, scars felt nothing, yet still, Thorin twitched, almost flinching from the touch as if…"You're ticklish," Bilbo exclaimed, ignoring Thorin's sudden scowl to wriggle his fingers against his side.

His squawk of laughter would have done Gudrún justice, astonishingly shrill, and Bilbo laughed aloud as Thorin quickly caught his hand and held it away, glaring down at him. He offered an innocent look of his own, grinning up at Thorin cheekily, "I'm terribly sorry, perhaps that was childish of me."

One corner of Thorin's mouth tipped up into a crooked smile. "Truce?"

"I can make no promises," Bilbo told him with a mournful sigh. A kiss stole away his teasing, nothing more than a gentle press of lips against his own, and yet, Bilbo sighed into that tenderness, tipping his head up in a silent request for another, please and thank you.

Another kiss as tender as the first, then Thorin gathered Bilbo to his side quickly enough to keep Bilbo from a decent view of his lower half, much to Bilbo's bemused annoyance. The blanket was negotiated and drape over them both, and Bilbo plucked lightly at his shirt buttons, wondering if he had the energy to bother removing it. It was an older shirt, suited for the dusty work of packing, and perhaps Bilbo did not care overly much if it was rumpled in the night.

It was in the middle of his musing over his shirt that Thorin spoke, hardly more than a whisper and half-muffled into Bilbo's hair where Thorin had buried his face.

"I love you," Thorin said, and the words were gritted out, strained out of him as if ripped from his throat. Bilbo caught his breath, his memory echoing with other words that had been just as torn and raw; _I do not get to keep the things I love._

Bilbo squirmed free of Thorin's grip, twisting as he was reluctantly released. Thorin refused to meet his eyes, his gaze fixed away from Bilbo and Bilbo did not force him, only slipped one hand into the dampness of his hair, cupping the nape of his neck. Thorin's eyes closed as Bilbo rested his forehead against his, their mouths a whisper apart.

"I love you," Bilbo told him, low, his lips brushing Thorin's and he felt as much as heard the pained sound that wrenched from Thorin's chest. "I love you," Bilbo repeated, and he did not offer oaths, no sanctimonious pats or empty reassurances. He could not promise forever, there were few who could, but this, this was his to give. "I love you," Bilbo whispered again, "Love you. I love you."

Soft words that melted into shared kisses in the firelight, until drowsiness overcame them. Bilbo settled into the comforting strength of Thorin's arms, resting his cheek against his chest and allowed the steady thud of his heartbeat to lull him to sleep.

* * *

><p>If the Hobbits had one thing proper, it was that they enjoyed their comforts; comforts that Dwalin was currently enjoying himself, for feather mattresses and pillows were something that could never be taken for granted.<p>

The soft creak of his door open woke him instantly, followed by the soft patter of feet and Dwalin grumbled to himself, prying open an eye to look at two blue worried ones peering at him from over the bed's edge.

"What do you want, boy?" Dwalin rumbled, letting his eye sink back closed.

"I heard a monster," Frodo whispered, low, and Dwalin's eye crept open again, taking in the gleam of unshed tears. With a groan and a fervent promise to return. Dwalin pushed himself upright, reluctantly, yawning loudly as Frodo scooted back, shuffling his feet.

"Aye, all right, then," he asked, stretching until his back popped. "Where is the foul creature? In the closet, is it? Beneath your bed?"

Frodo shook his head frantically. "I heard it in Uncle Bilbo's room."

That gave him a pause and Dwalin flopped back on the bed with a groan, "Lad, I promise you, your uncle can deal with any monster in his bedroom. Whatever creature might be there, he'll have a proper handle on it, I'm sure."

There was a small sniffle, followed by the sound of a small hand rubbing frantically over a wet face. Dwalin forced his eye open again and a teary Frodo looked worriedly back.

"All right, come on, then," Dwalin grumbled, mentally adding this to the tally of what favor Thorin owed him as he reach out a hand to the boy. He climbed up on the mattress and beneath the blankets in a flash, already stealing far more than his own share of the covers. "You don't piss the bed, do you?" he asked suspiciously and Frodo shook his head vigorously.

It seemed only a moment before the lad was asleep, sprawling out on the mattress and Dwalin decided uncharitably that Hobbits must grow in their sleep. He hoped Thorin had the same issue, he did, and that his King ended up pushed bare-arsed to the floor in the night. That would take a mark off the tally board right there.

Dwalin settled back in, hardly noticing the tiny body that snuggled up to him in the night, drooling on his nightshirt, and if he gave the boy a gentle pat on the head before falling into his own sleep, ah, well, there were none to see it.

* * *

><p>end chapter 22<p> 


	23. Chapter 23

It was not a nephew eager for breakfast who woke Bilbo. Nor was it the rain, or his own grumbling tummy. Of the many things that had drawn him from his dreams just lately, not once had he woken to lovely feeling of drowsy, tender kisses at the nape of his neck. The length of a warm, bare body against his own was simply another blanket of contentment laid over him and Bilbo stretched with a little groan, snuggling back into the arms around him.

"Good morning," Thorin murmured close to his ear, his lips brushing softly.

"Hnnn, yes," Bilbo groaned, tipping his head back. "It does seem to be so far."

Thorin's mouth settled over his own, a tender morning kiss that left Bilbo sighing at the sweetness. A tangle of long hair fell down in a curtain, curls brushing softly against Bilbo's cheek in a caress of their own.

The roiling growl of his stomach was an abrupt interruption and the kiss broke into a low chuckle, Thorin shifting to rest his head on Bilbo's chest, over his heart. "I'm terribly sorry, am I keeping you?"

"Cheeky," Bilbo chided, lifting a hand to tangle into the soft curls that were spilling over his chest. "What time is it…oh, dear." A glance at the window confirmed his worst fears; for all that there were no easterly windows in the bedrooms that the light streaming through was bright and sunny told him that the sun was high in the sky and there was likely a hungry nephew waiting for him to roll out of bed. As task easier contemplated than done, as Thorin's arms immediately tightened around him as he made to rise.

"And where are we going?" Thorin asked politely, as though they were both quite dressed and sipping tea, not bare together in a bed. "Not trying to sneak off, are we?"

"Frodo—" Bilbo protested, squirming a bit against restraining arms.

"Dwalin can feed him."

"I've seen how Dwalin feeds him!"

"I am aware. Stay with me," Thorin wheedled, pressing another kiss against Bilbo's chest, his mouth a lovely, damp touch. Oh, honestly, to hear Thorin of all people pleading like a child to stay up past bedtime.

"I will come straight back," Bilbo tried. To no avail, he was well and truly caught.

"No, you won't," Thorin told him, petulant unhappiness clear in his voice. "You will feed Frodo, and then you will see there are dishes to be done. And after that, you'll have to wash the counters, for there is no reason to leave messy counters after doing dishes."

"Thorin-" Bilbo began, amused and dismayed.

"Then you will see there is a little water on the floor, so you'll need to clean that. Then you'll realize that the last of the biscuits went with breakfast and that simply will not do, so-"

"Oh, honestly," Bilbo sighed.

"Then you'll need to make biscuits, wash THOSE dishes, and then perhaps I shall see you because you'll want to change your shirt, although once you've done that-"

"All right!" Bilbo broke in, "All right, you've convinced me. I'll stay."

Thorin sighed deeply, equal parts smug satisfaction and simple pleasure.

"Enjoy it while you can," Bilbo yawned. "You aren't going to be able to talk me out of leaving when I need the toilet."

"We'll be a month on the road to Erebor," Thorin told him, and his hand shifted from holding Bilbo close to sliding down his bare thigh. "Indulge me."

It wouldn't do to blurt out that he'd be more than happy to indulge Thorin in whatever way he liked. Better to simply lay back on his soft sheets, breathing in their mingled scents from his pillows as Thorin stroked him with remarkable delicacy, his large fingers testing each line of his body, following each soft curve or bony ridge. Last night his touches had been filled with reverent urgency; in the morning light, Bilbo relaxed beneath his lazy strokes like a cat basking in the sun. His cock was slow to rise against his belly, though when Thorin dragged his fingertips along the tender skin on the inside of his thighs, he hardened quickly.

Soon enough Thorin urged to him roll over so that they might face one another. Those hands that had followed a path from the arch of his foot to the nape of his neck were large enough to wrap around both of them and Bilbo quickly learned why discreet Dwarves covered their collarbone, for when he nibbled at Thorin's, he moaned loudly enough for the sound to echo through the room, thrashing gracelessly.

They spent almost as one, sighing into each other's mouths as wet warmth spilled over their hands and bellies. Thorin trembled against him and Bilbo pressed soothing kisses to his lips, his cheeks, petting his hair until he settled. Dark lashes fell against his cheeks, lips parting, and Bilbo couldn't help but steal another kiss, rubbing his bare face against Thorin's and relishing the gentle scratch of beard.

There were worse obsessions, Bilbo supposed ruefully, than one with Dwarvish beards and hair.

Another glance at the window told Bilbo it was well past midmorning, and with a last soft kiss, he managed to wriggle free despite Thorin's grumbles. He drew on his dressing gown with a wrinkled nose, casting a mournful glance at the empty basin on his bed stand.

"If someone hadn't broken my water pitcher, I could wash here," Bilbo said chidingly, belting his robe.

"Your water pitcher deserved its fate," Thorin informed him sleepily.

"My apologies, I had no idea my crockery had offended you so," Bilbo said dryly, and resigned himself to walking to the bathroom in his mussed state. The door to his bedroom did not yield to his turn of the knob and Bilbo looked at it with a frown.

"Did you bolt the door? Bilbo asked, astonished.

There was a rustle of blankets. "I was taking no chances."

Probably wise, Bilbo decided and he unlocked it, hoping only that Frodo hadn't tried to venture in during the night and found it locked. No matter; surely the lad would have knocked and Dwalin was nearby. Now was his chance to wash up and then check the state of his kitchen. To be fair, there was not much in the pantry at the moment and there was only so much mess Dwalin and Frodo could make with the little it held.

Though he trusted if a mess could be made, the two of them would manage.

Bilbo hesitated just inside the door, casting a last glance back at his bed. The blankets were in turmoil, tugged loose from the mattress and rucked up around Thorin, whose hair was the only visible sign of him. Beneath the blankets Thorin would still be sleep-warmed and tousled; lips kissed a stung-red and a scattering of bruises fresh on his skin, a telltale sign of Bilbo's demands.

Almost, Bilbo weakened and crawled back into those sheets that would still be fragrant with their lovemaking and he did not have to imagine he'd be welcomed with open arms. He wavered on the edge, one foot on either side of the threshold. A sound from the kitchen decided matters for him and with that, Bilbo took his regrets along with him to the bathroom and left Thorin alone in his bedroom.

There would be other nights soon enough, plenty of them, and mornings with them. More of each than he'd ever considered possible and the thought was as equally cheering as it was darkly tempting. Thorin had spoken of his rooms in Erebor and while Bilbo didn't think he was too much of the extravagant sort, the bedroom of a King was a luxury of the kind he'd be happy to indulge.

* * *

><p>The kitchen did not yield any more than the same clean table and tidy floors that he'd left the night before, along with one small Hobbit. Frodo was kneeling on one of the chairs, his box of pastels set out next to him, and working happily on a piece of paper. At his elbow was a small plate with the crumbs of what Bilbo assumed was the last of the scones and he sent up a small prayer of gratitude that no one had attempted cooking this morning.<p>

"Good morning, my lad," Bilbo told him and dropped a kiss on his messy thatch of curls. "And what are we up to?"

"Mister Dwalin said I have to pack up the very last of my things," Frodo told him, scribbling determinedly. "I had to draw one more picture, though."

"I see," Bilbo peered over his shoulder, taking in his drawing. Frodo was a fair artist for his age and Bilbo did not have to squint to see whose portrait he was creating; four little Hobbits standing together, each of them holding weapons aloft, from spoon to frying pan. One of them had an overturned bucket on his head and the smallest on the end looked as if his thumb were in his mouth. A jar with 'Cookies' traced painstakingly on the side was at their feet.

"That's a fine picture," Bilbo praised. "Very well done."

Frodo nodded. With his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, his little brow furrowed, he was the very picture of concentration. "I needed to finish this so I can put it in my room. That way Sam can see it all the time and he won't forget me."

Oh. Bilbo's heart clenched, his breath catching. Once again in the course of his short life, Frodo was leaving behind friends and home. Frodo had lost so much and now Bilbo was planning on taking him away from everything he'd ever known. Hamfast had assured him all would be well, but Bilbo couldn't help the hard knot of worry that tied in his chest.

"I'm sorry, my boy," Bilbo murmured. "Here I am, taking you away from your friends and home, and I've nary asked you what you think of it, have I. I never asked precisely what you want."

"I said what I wanted, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo said stoutly. Blue eyes rose and met Bilbo's with odd solemnness for so small a child. "I want to go with you and Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin. We'll have an adventure, all of us."

"Yes, we will, but-" Bilbo hesitated, "Sometimes adventures aren't quite what you think they will be."

Frodo nodded, stubbornly. "Sometimes things happen…" Frodo trailed away, blinking hard, and Bilbo squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, did not have to ask what sort of things the boy was imagining. His little chin wobbled and then rose firmly. "But we'll go all the same, won't we?"

"Yes, we're going all the same," Bilbo patted his head. "You'll miss your friends, though, won't you?"

"You have to say goodbye to go on adventures," Frodo said, seriously. "And hello as well. So we will say goodbye to Hobbiton and hello to Erebor."

"Yes, my boy, we will, the both of us," Bilbo gave him a one-armed hug, poking him in the side until he giggled and squirmed away.

"I'm going to hang this up!" Frodo announced happily, and darted away, picture in hand, leaving Bilbo alone in his kitchen.

Idly, Bilbo ran a finger down the smooth wood of his table, looking around at the dishes still neatly in the sideboard, pots hung in friendly welcome by the fire. All of this would be staying, even his teapot, for Bilbo well knew that Dwarves would be able to supply him with any kitchen utensil he might require and likely many he wouldn't. Chances were if what he wanted didn't exist, they'd invent a new gadget just for him and delight in doing so, for Bilbo hadn't yet met a Dwarf who didn't enjoying showing off his craft.

His feet carried him out of the kitchen and into the emptiness of his study. Dwalin had carried the last crate out to the wagon the night before. Aside from a few assorted sundries, Bilbo had everything packed away that he needed. It was done, he realize, all of it crated and boxed and strapped down. Ready to be carried off to Erebor and while someday Bilbo would return to Bag End, it would not be soon. And even if he did, it would not be the same. That was a lesson Gandalf had instructed him on and he'd learned in well.

Bilbo took a deep breath and turned to leave, only to hesitate when something caught his eye. The edge of a frame was leaning against one of the bookshelves and Bilbo drew it out and lifted it up. It was the map, Bilbo realized, Thorin's map, the inked dragon still hung in flight over Erebor as it always would, the tip of one wing smudged.

With a delicate finger, Bilbo touched the yellowed parchment. It had been his only link to Thorin for some years, holding all his memories of his travels, the best and the worst of them. Every glance at it had brought his loneliness to the forefront, this stolen relic, a reminder of what he'd nearly lost.

In the hallway, he heard childish laughter and the low rumble of talking. Without thinking, Bilbo carefully pulled the map from the frame, folding it with haste and quick as a flash he had it behind his back as Thorin and Frodo stepped into view. Frodo had both arms wrapped around Thorin's leg, giggling as Thorin struggled to walk, his chuckles as warming as Frodo squeals.

"I seem to have acquired a growth of some sort," Thorin said dryly, flashing Bilbo a grin. His sleeves were still rolled up, hands and hair still damp. Bilbo only matched his smile, taking in the pair of them fondly. Thorin's expression turned curious, "Are you looking for something?"

"No," Bilbo told him simply. "I do believe I'm ready."

Thorin stilled, reaching down to gather Frodo up. "You're sure?" Thorin asked, carefully, "There's no need to rush, Bilbo, truly, I do not want—"

It was not a Tookish nature that made Bilbo stride up, halting Thorin's pretty speech and reassurances with a loud, smacking kiss that sent Frodo into another wave of giggles. "I'm sure," Bilbo said firmly and tweaked Frodo's nose lightly. "Aren't we, my lad?"

"Yes!" Frodo cheered and Thorin took in a slow breath, let it out.

"Then we shall leave today," Thorin said, softly. He ducked his head and stole a kiss of his own before he added, "After breakfast."

"You'll hear no argument from us," Bilbo laughed and he hung back, allowing Thorin and Frodo to precede him. In that one moment when their backs were turned he tucked the map into his inside pocket, hiding it away.

Then he followed them to the kitchen to make what he could of the pantry's meager offerings. Once last chance to cook in his own kitchen, for those ones he loved the most…and for Dwalin, whenever he arose.

* * *

><p>Breakfast was eaten, the dishes washed and put away. The ponies were saddled and hitched, the last crate tucked into the wagon. All too soon the lot of them were ready, the Dwarves already dressed in armor and weaponry as they readied the wagon.<p>

In the hallway, Bilbo drew Sting from his mother's glory box, strapping it to his waist. The weight was familiar, comforting in its way and set a longing flaring in his heart, for mountains, yes, he would see mountains again, he and Frodo both. His Mithril shirt was already hidden beneath his clothes, so light that he would hardly have noticed it.

Next to him, Frodo looked at him with wonder, his eyes shining with excitement. "Are we going now? Are we?"

"Yes, my lad," Bilbo agreed. He took Frodo's hand and together they stepped out the front door. "We are."

Hamfast and his wife stood in front of the gates, their brood of children surrounding them and when Bilbo held out a hand to be shaken, Hamfast grabbed it and pulled him into a hard embrace. "You take care of yourself, now, Mister Bilbo," Hamfast told him hoarsely. When he finally let Bilbo go, he drew out a large red handkerchief, blowing his nose loudly.

Bell took him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks, tears streaming. "Take care of the both of you," she told him, casting a watery glare to the Dwarves. "And you as well! I expect I'll see all of you back here, sometime or another. Do not make me chase the lot of you down!"

"Wouldn't dare," Dwalin said dryly, "They'd hear you shouting in the mines." He stood before the both of them, a head taller and twice as broad, and did not flinch when Bell took hold of the front of his shirt and gave him a matching set of kisses on both cheeks. Hamfast gave him a hug of his own, no less firm than Bilbo's, and a slap on the back, and whatever it was the two of them whispered in his ears sent a hot wave of crimson over Dwalin's ears and head alike.

"Aye, aye, I'll return with them, too," Dwalin coughed. He swung a hard look to the small Hobbits lining the fence post, heads held high and shoulders back despite the occasional sob. Dwalin strode in front of them, hands on his hips and scowled at them. "I'll expect to see the lot of you when I return as well, understand? We've other raids to plan, haven't we?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused, though Merry's chin wobbled and Pippin wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. Samwise only looked up at Dwalin with large, wet eyes and the Dwalin's glare softened as he reached out tousle hair and pat little heads.

"That's right, lads. Not a cookie jar in the Shire will be safe from us. _Du Bekâr!_"

"_Du Bekâr!_" they echoed, and when Dwalin crouched, the three of them flung themselves into his outstretched arms.

"There we are," Dwalin crooned, "You're all good lads. All of you."

Bilbo had to dab at his own eyes with his handkerchief and look away until Dwalin finally set them on their feet. Only to be replaced by Frodo, who hugged each of his friends in turn, whispering fierce promises to return and linking pinkies in childish oaths.

"We will come back," Bilbo assured them. "We'll visit, I promise."

Thorin's hand settled warm on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, "We will," Thorin said, adding his own vow.

"You'd better," Came from the pathway and Bilbo turned to see Eglantine and Esmeralda striding up the path, with Gorbadoc trailing behind, his cane tapping determinedly along. Eglantine offered him a smile from around her pipe and Esmeralda matched it with a gentle one of her own.

"We thought we'd see you off," Esmeralda stepped up and handed Bilbo the basket that was hanging from her arm. "I did say I'd owe you pudding if you gave Lobelia's nose a tweak, didn't I?"

Bilbo took the basket and noted with no small delight the amount of wrapped packages within it, each surely brimming with treats. "Thank you, Essy," Bilbo told her, and drew her into a fond hug.

"I made no such promise, but I rather thought I owed you something," Eglantine said dryly, giving Thorin a nod, "I do believe my daughter would sooner cut off her own head than remove that pendant you gave her, Mister Thorin."

"It was no trouble—" Thorin protested, giving Bilbo an uncertain look.

Ah, well, that he'd earned, hadn't he. "We're delighted she loves it so," Bilbo told her firmly.

"Yes, indeed," Eglantine puffed out a ring of smoke and then added a leather pouch to the basket. "I'll keep my own thoughts on whatever troubles were involved in it," she said with a shrewd smirk. "Either way, I thought you might like some Longbottom leaf to take along."

"That is very kind," Bilbo said, gratefully. His own tobacco pouch was full, but he'd hardly turn away a bit more. Thorin echoed the sentiment and Bilbo smiled up at him. "I knew I'd convert you."

Only to cross his eyes when Thorin dropped a kiss on his nose. "Not a difficult prospect."

Bilbo felt a rush of heat rise in his own cheeks and when he looked back at his relatives, Eglantine and Esmeralda were politely looking up at the sky, twin smiles curving their mouths.

Gorbadoc only leaned on his cane and snorted aloud. "Off on another adventure then? Always knew you'd be a bad influence on that boy." His toothless grin belied the harshness of the words and he gave Frodo a nod, "You look after your uncle, won't you, Frodo?"

"I will!" Frodo nodded happily and he squealed when Dwalin scooped him up and set him in the wagon. They'd left a cleared space in the middle, piled it with blankets to soften the ride for a boy who'd only just been on a pony for the first time days before. "Let's go, let's go!"

"Yes, let's be off," Bilbo agreed, softly, and he climbed atop his own pony easily enough, settling into the saddle. Tonight his backside would be aching, his legs stiff and sleep would be elusive whether or not he was nestled into Thorin's arms. But at the end of it, they'd already be a day close to Erebor and Bilbo looked forward to every twinge.

Teary goodbyes were called, shouted, Merry and Samwise waving frantically as Pippin tugged at his wet nappy. Eglantine and Esmeralda called goodbyes of their own, while Hamfast and Bell wiped away tears as quickly as they fell, calling for them to take care and to visit soon, and there would be a fine mug of moonshine for them all. They'd not made it to the bottom of the hill before a cry rang out, breathless and frantic.

"Wait! Wait!" Shouted and Bilbo pulled his pony to a stop, looking back in astonishment to see Ferdinand dashing down the path, a load of parcels in his arms. There was a knapsack on his back, one sleeve fluttering loose from the top and they all watched in as Ferdinand stumbled to a stop, leaning heavily on the wagon as he panted.

"My uncle…Uncle Mungo told me—" Ferdinand panted, gulping hard before he stood up straight. "I finished Frodo's clothing and…and…well, you'll need someone who can properly hem trousers! My Uncle said you'd agreed to have me along."

"And so I did," Thorin sighed. "Sit next to Dwalin in the wagon. We may see about getting you a pony in the next town."

"Yes, sir, your Highness, sir," Ferdinand said earnestly, scrambling up next to Dwalin.

"You're sure we can feed three Hobbits, Thorin?" Dwalin grumbled, flicking the reins.

"We'll make do," Thorin said, shaking his head, and Bilbo sniffed. Honestly, as if Dwarves could talk about appetites.

Bilbo only looked back once. At the last turn of the road out of town, he hesitated, turning in the saddle to look back at Hobbiton. The oak above Bag End was still visible, its leafy branches wafting softly in the breeze and the door was hardly to be seen, the green blending into the hill. His little fence was nothing more than a memory, protecting his garden, his tomatoes, ending in the gate that wound its way up to the front door.

He looked ahead, at Frodo in the wagon, and Ferdinand next to him, their eyes wide while they looked about, as if they were traveling through the deepest wilds instead of the outskirts of the Shire. Dwalin was hunched over the reins, his axes at his shoulders and further ahead was Thorin.

It was like peering back into his memories to see Thorin regally astride the pony, his hair falling over his shoulders. They'd been traveling to Erebor then as well and there had been less silver in his hair, less lines on his face. The pony halted and Thorin turned in the saddle, met Bilbo's gaze with a smile that Bilbo was helpless not to return. More silver to his hair, true, but the warmth in his eyes, the love Bilbo knew was within them, that was newer and so very much returned.

Bilbo clucked to his pony and twitched the reins, falling in behind Thorin again, following him back to Erebor, to the mountains, wherever he led. These Dwarves and Frodo, well, Bilbo suspected he might follow them anywhere at all.

If home were people and not a place, then all roads led home.

-finis-

Notes:

So, I originally wrote this story based on a conversation with GreenKey, that went something like, 'Wouldn't it be hilarious if Dwalin and Thorin went shopping in the Shire!'

Some 118,000 words later, I have this, which I had so much fun writing. It was funnier, angstier, and all out better than I ever could have hoped and I'll always love it.

Thank you so much to everyone who read along as I wrote it, patiently waiting for updates and suffering through cliffhangers.

And to GreenKey, thank you so, so much for all your comments, all your encouragement, all your everything. This story would not exist without you and I owe you so much. And yes, the file name was 'shopping' through the very last chapter. *G*


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